#like i KNOW /all/ the dr characters have their eyes thick inked out like that

[aparticularbandit]

also i'm sorry but hajime is trans whenever i see his face with all that eyeliner and his face shape i just see girl i read girl and i don't know if brain thinks he ids as male or if he ids as female and hasn't come out yet but brain just looks at him and says girl when his pronouns are he/him so in my head he's trans sorry not sorry

[myemuisemo]

What ho! It's chapter IV of The Hound of the Baskervilles in Letters from Watson, and we get to meet Sir Henry Baskerville, freshly come from the Canadian West.

The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the gentleman.

So... I was not expecting when James Mortimer felt like a Timothy Hutton character that Sir Henry Baskerville would feel like a Christian Kane character. This is obviously not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fault in any way, but it's certainly enlivening my imagination.

At this point, I've watched so much Leverage and White Collar that when Sir Henry says nobody knew he was going to the Northumberland Hotel until he decided it with Mortimer, I figured that Mortimer had maneuvered him into that choice by subtle language choices. It was a shocker later in the chapter for Holmes to find the bearded cab driver following Sir Henry.

When I first read this story as a mid-sized child, the internet wasn't around, so I took as a given that "foolscap" was some kind of paper. I'd envisioned it as having some odd texture, like the onion-skin paper that grown-ups used to use for airmail letters. But no -- it's a size, similar to U.S. "legal sized" paper, so the note is on a half-sheet of that.

Holmes' quickly finding the exact article from which the words were taken raised the hairs on my neck as being too neat. So, of course, I googled for the phrase "keep away from the" in the London Times. I figured it'd come up three times a week, and I was fairly wrong. It's a common phrase, but not that common. So fair enough, Holmes reads the newspaper carefully.

The mystery to me is why the letter writer didn't cut the letters of the word moor out separately and paste them down. Was the brush in his bottle of adhesive too big to do it neatly?

Then we get the expertise challenge between Holmes and Mortimer:

“Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have imagined,” said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. “I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper; but that you should name which, and add that it came from the leading article, is really one of the most remarkable things which I have ever known. How did you do it?” “I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from that of an Esquimau?” “Most certainly.” “But how?” “Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious. The supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve, the—”

Mortimer's expertise is probably bunk, and Doyle's audience would have been split between people who believed Mortimer could tell the difference and those who already thought it was bunk. Smithsonian has a helpful article on the Morton Collection of skulls and the shadow it cast across anthropological practices here. Prior to his death in 1851, Morton had an avid network of fellow scientists who believed that their measuring of stolen skulls was getting them somewhere (despite the variety they found within skulls they thought were the same race). Darwin, however, thought it was all bad science.

Moving on to the written moor... that's a look back at a way of life that pen technology has changed significantly.

“If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single word, and has run dry three times in a short address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else."

The pen is likely a steel-tipped dip pen, which did not need to be constantly "mended" as quills had, and which was dipped into an ink pot. Dip pens had been around since the 1850s. One thing we do know is that the writer is not a person who writes often enough or casually enough to take trouble over a fountain pen -- then an invention just under a decade old and filled with an eye dropper. A person using a fountain pen would have had their own pen, and it would not have run dry so frequently. (Here's my source.)

What does Holmes see on the paper? It lacks a watermark, even though foolscap is named specifically for its watermark of a fool's cap; but that could have been on the other half of the sheet. Is it a blot, a stray hair, a water stain?

Where is Sir Henry's boot? That's got to be intended for making footprints, right?

I do rather like Sir Henry.

“Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell, Mr. Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me from going to the home of my own people, and you may take that to be my final answer.” His dark brows knitted and his face flushed to a dusky red as he spoke.

Will one of the twenty-three hotels near Charing Cross turn up a cut-up Times in the rubbish? What is the cab really up to? Are Holmes and Mortimer flirting or conning each other?

[romewritingshop]

I’m a Dad

Fandom: Choices, Open Heart, AU

Relationship: Dr. Ethan Ramsey X F!MC (Name: Alyssa Brooks)

Warnings: Fluff, slight angst, mentions of birth complications, Alan is okay no need to panic 😅, anxieties of fatherhood, slight injury (nothing gruesome).

Rating: 12+ Word Count Total: 3209

AN: This is a birthday commission for @tsrookie who wanted a fic of dad!Ethan. I hope this is what you wanted and enjoy. The song that inspired this was Michele Morrone’s Dad (Accoustic Version):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cDNO--sPgE

I wanted to portray the significance of Alan in Ethan and Alyssa’s lives. It was emotional writing this 🥺.

Rome’s Birthday Celebration Masterlist 2021

CHOICES MASTERLIST

Tagged: @eleanorbloom @juliafranquet @me-and-my-choices @drethanramslay @choicesficwriterscreations @queencarb @miss-smrxtiee @melaninnntae @they-callme-ami @openheartfanfics @mvalentine @starrystarrytrouble @drariellevalentine @nikki-2406 @caseyvalentineramsey @kiara-36 @choicesreal @sophxwithers @brightningstar @tsrookie @gryffindordaughterofathena @arnikki-2406 @mercury84choices ​@theinvisibledreamergirl @stygianflood @ethansramsey

A blissful silence settled in the room as Ethan tossed his house keys onto the kitchen countertop. Flicking the switches as the lights turned on in his house. A large suburban white painted house that he and Alyssa bought a few years ago. Ethan’s eyes wandered around the living room, taking in the quiet. Alyssa wasn’t home yet which gave Ethan the time to head to his study. Clambering up the stairs and going to the first door on his left, a spacious room with forest green walls. A metal case of shelves with wooden baskets filled with stationary, was diagonally placed in the corner to the door. Directly opposite the door was a mahogany table with a cushioned wheeled office chair.

To the left of the door, was a red and green small plastic table and bench. Crayons and pencils were scattered on the table and floor, there were sheets of coloured papers with indiscernible scribbles. The furrow in Ethan’s eyebrows relaxed as he slipped off his black cashmere jacket and hung it on a hook to the left of him. Crouching by the small kids table and glanced at the drawings, noting the curved shapes to be attempts at writing. Writing what exactly? He wasn’t too sure. 

Nathan and Savannah were the smartest kids he knew. Why wouldn’t they be though, since their parents were the acclaimed doctors of Bloom Edenbrook’s diagnostics team. Ethan put their drawings in a woven basket which had a label of ‘kids’, he held onto all the crayons and pencils and placed them in their respective labelled pots. Placing the pots in their woven basket and placing their basket on top of the shelf unit. Alyssa probably didn’t have time to tidy up their mess because they were spending the afternoon and evening with Alyssa’s friends.

Maybe now was a good time to get started on his project as he pulled out a basket and took out a few sheets of thick matte paper and an envelope. Bringing them over to his desk and seating himself, opening a drawer in his desk. He took out a few ink pens and placed the pens next to his paper, his eyes darted to the wooden picture frame of Alyssa and their three kids: Allison, Nathan and Savannah. He still couldn’t believe that he was theirs, and they were his. It was only yesterday, when he and Alyssa were in the reception, treating for a thoracotomy and now they had a house and kids.

Ethan knew what he had to do as soon as he brought his pen to the paper, the words flew right through him as he wrote. The memories of his kids flooding his brain with a warm familiar glow.

~~~~~~

“Out of the way!”

Ethan rushed down the stairs, shoving past nurses and doctors before slamming the corridor door open to the maternity ward. Sienna was hot on his heels as he growled and grimaced at people, his eyes went to the pager as a message from Naveen popped up. ‘4cm dilated’. Ethan was close as he weaved through a never ending maze of Edenbrook’s corridors. In the distance he spotted Naveen, his dad Alan, and his daughter Allison were looking into the window of one of the maternity rooms.

“Ethan! There you are!”

“Daddy!”

His crinkled grumpy face relaxed at the sight of Allison. Five years old with a knack for mischief and a carbon copy of himself. She had his eyes and ears but Alyssa’s nose, lips and hair. Alan was taking care of Allison while Ethan and his wife were working, however, Alyssa’s contraction pains strengthened and her constant lavatory needs indicated that she needed to be checked in. Naveen came up to stand beside Ethan; who took Allison into his arms.

“Naveen, how is she?”

“Well the contractions are hurting and I have a feeling the babies are coming now. Dr. Delarosa is in there with her. Are you ready Ethan?”

Ethan gave a nod as he turned to Allison, a calm gentle smile reserved for her.

“Time to get your new siblings. You okay to wait here with Uncle Naveen and Grandpa?”

“Yeah! Uncle Naveen is buying me chocolate!”

Ethan quirked a brow at his mentor, who in return stuck with a confident grin before Ethan placed Allison down. Naveen clasped his hand around her tiny hand and led her to the staff break room, whilst listening to her ramblings about her new siblings. Ethan took a deep breath as Alan stepped up to rest his hand on his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

Ethan smiled and was about to step into the room, when something held him still. His buried nerves leaked through his wall as memories of Dolores seeped to his front. Alyssa was pregnant with twins, that alone carried several complications in terms of the positioning of the babies, possible post partum haemorrhage. On top of that she was one week late, twins born post due date carry risks to the mother and the babies.

A flash of baby Ethan in the NICU drained the warmth from his face and he felt like he was drowning. He couldn’t breathe as he pressed a hand against the door ledge, bowing his head as Alan stood beside him. Alan could tell Ethan was panicking. His shoulders shook as Alan gently probed.

“Ethan?”

“What if something happens?”

“Boston’s famous doctor is worried about a twin birth? Ethan, you’ve done this before. You know what to do.”

“It’s different. Alyssa is in there. She’s the patient. What if I can’t make the right decision?”

“Ethan Jonah Ramsey. You are a diagnostician. A famous one at that. You look at the possibilities before you make your decision. You have it in you son. Plus she’s a fighter. She won’t back down. But she needs you. Be brave and if you can’t be brave, be brave for her. She needs your support.”

His father’s words felt like a warm wash of life as he inhaled the air, exhaling his anxieties and giving a steady nod. Ethan smiled at his father before pushing open the door to step into the room, stepping into action to help make Alyssa’s labour as easy as possible.

~~~~~~

“Daddy! When is Twilight Sparkle coming?”

“In a bit. If you finish your lunch, then she’ll come.”

“Daddy! Will she bring a lot of presents for us?”

“An average amount, Nathan.”

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose as he watched over the several little kids munching on their mini pizza slices and tater tots. It was the twins’ birthday today and the two of them invited their whole class to celebrate, the sun was shining as the kids sat on picnic blankets. The Ramseys’ had a spacious garden which could hold for nearly twenty five kids and several adults. Bryce, Jackie and Elijah were keeping an eye on the kids as Ethan slipped away to the kitchen where Alyssa was sat on a breakfast stool with her foot in Sienna’s lap. Aurora was beside them as she carefully tapped a finger against the swollen skin near her ankle. Jenner paced on his paws with nervous energy as he whined at his mom, Alyssa.

“Alyssa has sprained her ankle … Ethan.”

The friends still had a difficult time addressing Ethan by his first name but he paid no heed to it as Alyssa tried to come off the stool, trying to brush off the pain.

“It’s nothing, I’m sure I’ll be fine as long as I don’t walk on it.”

Ethan sighed rather exasperatedly as he folded his arms at his wife. That motion alone made Alyssa meekly smile and remain in her seat. Aurora handed her a cool pack for Alyssa to use for her sprain. She knew that she needed to rest her ankle but the twins would be so upset.

“Fine. But how are we going to solve the entertainment issue?”

At that moment the front door opened and closed as Alan strode in with a confident excited gait. He had a white cardboard box in his hands as he hummed and placed the box on the table, unveiling it to reveal a My Little Pony cake with ‘Happy 4th Birthday! Nathan and Savannah’. Alan’s brows sagged at the sight of his daughter-in-law.

“What happened?”

“I … fell.”

Ethan resorted to pinching the bridge of his nose before explaining the story. The children were showing off dance moves and there was a little girl who was showing off her gymnastics ability. Alyssa thought she could show off her talent by demonstrating a cartwheel, unfortunately her cartwheel was aimed the wrong way and Alyssa landed awkwardly in a bush with her legs askew. Alan smiled at Alyssa as he realised that there was an issue of entertainment since Alyssa was planning to dress up as the kids’ favourite character, Twilight Sparkle.

“I guess that means Alyssa can’t be Twilight Sparkle.”

Sienna gave a nod and spoke up.

“Aurora, Jackie and I would do it but I don’t think there’s enough time for any of us to learn everything about My Little Pony. The kids are gonna see right through us.”

“It’s a conundrum.”

Everyone took a moment to think before Alan’s eyes twinkled with an idea.

“I have an idea. Sienna, start watching some My Little Pony, I’ll stall the kids. ‘Lyssa, where did you keep your guitar?”

Alyssa’s eyes twinkled as she informed Alan of the guitar, to which Aurora ran up to search for it. It seemed everyone knew what to do, everyone except for Ethan, who placed his hands on his hips, turning to his father.

“Would you mind clueing me into your plan?”

“A little singing will have the kids distracted while Aurora, Alyssa and Sienna get ready. The kids will love it!”

At that moment, Bryce popped his head through the glass garden doors, there’s a slight line of sweat near the crown of his neck as he nervously glances back.

“The kids are going rabid if Twilight Sparkle doesn’t come in the next five minutes.”

Aurora rushed back down and handed Alan a brown varnished acoustic guitar, a gift from Alyssa’s patient Remy. Alan hung the strap over his shoulder and strutted outside to where all the kids shrieked and yelled.

“Okay kids! Who’s gonna sing the My Little Pony theme song?”

Ethan went out and noticed all the kids sitting at their picnic blankets, bopping and singing while Alan strummed the tune of the My Little Pony theme song. Ethan and Rafael took the time to begin cleaning up the rubbish whilst Bryce, Elijah and Jackie kept an eye out for Sienna, Aurora and Alyssa. All the kids and the twins were enraptured, even Jenner was happily panting to the music. Alan was going through a list of songs going from the My Little Pony Theme Song, to the lime and coconut song and to  the rhinestone cowboy.Not long after, Alan got a thumbs up from Bryce and Jackie to which Alan smiled and announced.

“Now children! There is someone who’d like to wish two special children a Happy Birthday!”

Nathan and Savannah jumped up with excited shrieks as Alan strummed the music of the theme song and out came Twilight Sparkle. It was Sienna donning a purple sparkly dress, wings protruding from the back and a dark wig flowing off her shoulders. Her unicorn headband was fixed into the wig and her purple make-up shone in the sun as Sienna skipped towards the kids, tossing bounds of glitter.

Aurora and Jackie were helping Alyssa settle on a deck chair as the twins hugged and cried at the fact that Twilight Sparkle had come to their party. Ethan and Alyssa sent a thankful smile as Alan returned their smile, everyone’s faces warming at the twin’s excitement.

~~~~~~

Ethan used the back of his hand to wipe off the sweat on his brow as he pushed the front door of his apartment open. Baby Allison happily chewed on her yellow teether while bouncing in the baby sling, strapped across Ethan’s chest. Alyssa was working at the hospital after spending four months at home and it was Ethan’s turn to stay home with Allison. He was glad he opted for a loose linen shirt and khaki trousers as the Boston heat was slowly racking up. Ethan had gone out to buy some ingredients for their dinner: stir fried tofu and broccoli. 

Alyssa would need some good comfort food after going back to work and he knew that Chinese would delight her. He unclipped one arm strap, pressing a palm to hold up Allison before unclipping the other to carry his daughter to her high chair in the kitchen. Allison was teething so he handed her a teething ring to help Allison improve motor skills. His daughter smiled and babbled at the sight of her dad as Ethan pressed a kiss onto his daughter’s forehead.

Allison was a daddy’s girl since she would whine and cry with Alyssa, but when it came to Ethan, Allison babbled and laughed. Alyssa was sure that she would say ‘Dada’. Ethan grinned as Jenner padded into the kitchen, bringing himself up to stand on his hind legs beside Allison. The dog was protective and loving to Allison as she tried to swat at Jenner’s nose.

“Jenner, keep an eye on her.”

Jenner barked as Ethan began taking out utensils and the shopping to get started. Draining the water from the tofu and breaking up the broccoli into florets. Every so often, his eyes would wander to his little girl on the high chair. Ethan still couldn’t believe the fact that he was a father. A living breathing child was in his care, one he made with the woman he loved as his eyes glistened at the memories of her birth. Despite expecting for children to not be in the cards for him, life had a way of telling him that it was always the case.

As Ethan stared longingly at his daughter, Jenner could smell something faintly burning; turning his head to hear a loud crackle and pop. Jenner barked furiously which had Ethan snap out and realise the onions and garlic had burnt in the wok, the broccoli was charred beyond recognition as Ethan turned off the induction hob. The loud barks caused Allison to startle and little beads of tears streamed down her face.

His heart lurched as he immediately stalked to his daughter to take her in his arms and get her to settle down. It was the first time in a long time that Ethan burnt dinner as he exhaled at the time on his wrist watch. Alyssa would be home in an hour and it was too late to restart. He didn’t have enough ingredients and he couldn’t whip up something else in time for Alyssa to sink her teeth into.

At that moment his phone rang as Ethan reached into his pocket to rest the phone between his ear and shoulder, while bouncing a teary Allison in his lap.

“Ethan Ramsey.”

“Ethan.” The corner of Ethan’s lips curled upwards at the recognition of his father’s voice. “I’m just about ten minutes away from your home. Alyssa invited me to have dinner, do you need anything?”

Ethan glanced at the mess behind him, a low exhale left his lips.

“Can you please pick up some Chinese on your way here?”

It wasn’t long when Alan arrived with several bags of Chinese take out from Xing-Fu’s Restaurant. Ethan took the bags from Alan and set up the dining table while Alan took the time to talk and play with his granddaughter, Jenner wagged his tail rapidly as he watched Alan and Allison. Not long after the kitchen was clear and the dinner table was set, Alyssa had entered the apartment with a smile on her face.

She took a moment to freshen up before joining the Ramseys at the dinner table. Her eyes sparkled at the array of side dishes as she pecked Ethan’s cheek before digging rather ravenously into the food. All the tension from the day melted under the spicy heat of duck and the softness of lotus buns. Ethan and Alan share a knowing smile as they too get stuck into their meal, Allison smiles and babbles in her high chair next to Alyssa. Glad to have her mother with her.

~~~~~~

The memories faded as Ethan lifted his pen from the letter, a soft nostalgic smile brushed on his face as he pushed the frame of his glasses up the bridge of his nose. A faint sound of the front door opened as excited chirps and barking fluttered into his study. The kids, Jenner and Alyssa were home as Ethan smiles at the incoming thunder steps, spinning his office chair to the direction of the door. The twins come tumbling in and launch themselves into Ethan’s arms, not giving a chance for Ethan to pay attention to their chatter. Jenner is sitting at the entrance of the door, while Allison stands behind him with her hand scratching the top of his fur. 

“Nathan, Savannah! I cannot understand your rambling.”

“Yeah, they had a lot of pastries. Aunt Sienna made a lot of cakes and biscuits.”

Ethan shook his head with a teasing grin at the twins. The two of them hid their mouths as Nathan denied.

“No we didn’t. Ally did!”

“Liar, I saw you two take two slices of the chocolate fudge cake.”

“No! You’re dreaming Ally.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow at his troublesome twins but pressed long kisses into their hair. Savannah leaned over his shoulder and noticed the pen and paper before pressing her two palms on Ethan’s face, forcing him to look directly at her as she asked.

“Are you drawing without us?”

Ethan shook his head as he explained.

“I’m making a gift for grandpa.”

“Are you gonna give it to him tomorrow?”

Before he could answer, Alyssa appeared at the door with her hands on her hips, dressed in a green cotton dress and brown knee high boots. Her mom voice was coming through as she moved her eyes between the troublesome twins.

“Nathan and Savannah. Time for bed. We’ve got to wake up early tomorrow if you want to spend the whole day with Grandpa.”

“Do we have to?”

Ethan stood up and held on to the twins as he smartly urged.

“Come on if you get dressed for bed, you can stay up late tomorrow.”

The twins gasped as they scrambled off Ethan’s arms and rushed to their bedroom to get into their pyjamas. A small smile curled up on Alyssa’s lips as she turned to the eldest Ramsey child.

“You too, Ally!”

“But Mom!”

“Come on.”

Ethan steps up to the doorway and sweetly kisses his wife as she cupped his cheek.

“You coming?”

“Just finishing up.”

Alyssa gave a nod and led her daughter away to her bedroom, Jenner obediently bounding behind them. Ethan returned to his desk to read over the last words he wrote.

Look at me now. I’m a dad.

Thank you for making me the man I am today.

Love,

Dr. Ethan J. Ramsey

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 3: the moon

Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x MJ!Original Character

Summary: Things complicate in Peter’s life as Spider-man after he makes another visit to Kat’s job.

Warnings: Cursing, NWH Spoilers (kinda), Violence, Suggestive Themes

Word Count: 2.7k

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Why?”

“Simple. You and I have a common enemy. I want him dealt with.” Dr. Connors’s eyes flashed with a mix of recognition and understanding.

“Peter Parker. And what makes you think I will help you?” he asked, finally rising from his seat to fully face the other man in the room.

“Because, Dr. Connors, you are a scientist: a man whose mind never rests, and it will plague you for eternity within these walls where you are locked up, incapable of experimentation,” Mr. Negative offered.

“I was already a bit of a mad scientist before my stay here began,” he scoffed in return.

“You have also proven yourself to be more reliable than certain other players in this city,” he said, his eyes flitting back towards the door.

“A more attractive argument for you than myself,” Dr. Connors bit back.

“I am also not asking. Any and all explanations were nothing more than a simple courtesy, but I really do not have the time to sit here and beg so-” 

He paused and stepped forward, pressing a cold hand to the taller man’s shoulder, and suddenly his thoughts felt much further away, as though they had been obscured by a thick fog or torn out like pages in a diary.

“I am breaking you out, and we are leaving now.”

Peter couldn’t quite explain what he was doing back at The Ink Pot. It was as though something had pulled him there, tugging at some invisible string as he made his way down the New York City streets. This time, as he stepped inside, he took a moment to observe the small shop. The shelves were all crafted from dark oak, and the lights hung sparingly around each section emitted a warm yellow glow. In the back, Peter spotted what he could only assume to be the children’s section, marked by a large tree, emerging halfway out of the wall, decorated by fairy lights that hung limply from the branches.

He didn’t realize he was looking for Kat until he’d found her. His feet, which had unconsciously carried him to the back of the store, planted themselves in front of a nearby shelf upon spotting the familiar head of red hair, and Peter busied himself with pretending to take great interest in the titles before him.

“Peter? What are you doing here?” Kat spoke, having looked up and noticed him, and Peter suddenly realized he didn’t have the slightest clue.

“Oh, I was just… browsing,” he fumbled.

“Funny, I didn’t peg you as a Russian literature kind of guy. You a big Tolstoy fan?” She quirked her head to the side, the ghost of a smirk forming on her lips.

“Oh yeah, I love Crime and Punishment,” he replied, his brain supplying the closest title he could find.

“That’s Dostoevsky,” Kat responded easily. She paused, eyeing Peter curiously.

“So what are you actually doing here, Peter Parker?” she asked.

“I- I don’t know,” Peter’s shoulders sank as the truth made its way out. He didn’t know. 

“Don’t you have any friends to hang out with?” she asked slowly, her eyes swirling with curiosity and a bit of pity. But her expression held no judgment or contempt. She just seemed worried about him.

“You’re my friend,” he said quickly, thinking back to their conversation two days before.

“Nuh-uh, I don’t count,” she tsked, shaking her head.

“You’re not my friend?”

“No! I didn’t say that. It’s just, I’m a girl you met on a failed blind date two days ago. Surely you have other friends,” she reasoned, flustered by the accusation, but she quickly settled when Peter’s smirk betrayed his joking manner.

“Technically, we met three weeks ago,” he smiled.

“Do you really want to count that?” Her eyebrows raised.

“No…” Peter admitted. She looked at him for a moment, unmoving, as though she was really taking him in for the first time since they’d met.

“My lunch break is at one. We can hang out then, but for now, you need to leave,” she said, turning on her heel to walk away.

“What? Why?” Peter asked, scrambling to follow her.

“Because, if you keep distracting the staff and loitering, you’re gonna get me fired,” she said, though her tone was light, and she showed no displeasure at his company.

“Are you sure I have to go?” he asked, sticking his bottom lip out for good measure. Kat snorted at the expression, and Peter felt that familiar sense of victory at having made her laugh.

“Get out of here. I’ll meet you at the cafe down the street in thirty minutes,” she said before disappearing from his side. 

Peter sighed but made his way towards the door.

He knew something was wrong the moment he stepped outside. Even before the people came flying past on the sidewalk, jostling one another in their efforts to get away: the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Peter’s head whipped around, eyes landing on the source of their fear: a very large, very angry lizard.

“Shit.” It wasn’t hard to recognize Dr. Connors, given their fairly recent encounter only a month beforehand. What was alarming was the absence of his more frail human form and the fact that he was not at Ravencroft, trapped in a cell, where he belonged.

Darting into the nearest alleyway, Peter scrambled to strip off his outer layer of clothing to reveal the all too familiar red and blue suit beneath. After stuffing his backpack behind the rather putrid dumpster and flipping down his mask, he launched himself forward to greet his old rival.

“Hey there, Doc. You look different. Did you get a haircut or something?” Peter shouted, catching the reptile’s attention. To his surprise, he was not met with a response. Instead, Dr. Connors unleashed a deep growl before surging forward. Peter was quick to move out of the way, swinging his way onto a nearby lamppost for a better vantage point. Crouching down, he made a mental note to clock the number of citizens remaining on the street before returning his gaze to the oncoming threat. Dr. Connors charged the lamppost, wrapping two long, scaly hands around its base before uprooting it completely with Peter still attached.

Twisting mid-air to face the building beside him, he webbed the upper left corner before using the string to propel him back towards Dr. Connors feet first. Peter landed firmly atop the seven-foot lizard, planting a foot on each shoulder, his momentum sending the pair toppling over. Not wasting a minute in hesitation, Peter set to work webbing the large reptile to the ground, though he stopped short upon meeting his eyes. Dr. Connor’s gaze was hazy and unfocused, his usually blue irises appearing a jarring shade of orange and his pupils stark white. Most disturbing of all, though, were the whites of his eyes, shining with a dull grey, almost black, color. It was as though they had been inverted: like a negative of a photograph.

“What?”

His pause did not go unnoticed, and in an instant, the tables had turned, with Dr. Connors easily casting him aside, landing a heavy smack to the ribs. Peter hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop just in time to dodge another blow. Beside him, the reptilian man easily cracked the concrete where his head had lain only moments before. Dr. Connors was aiming to kill. Except this wasn’t Dr. Connors. He was different somehow.

“Dr. Connors, can we just talk for a second?” Peter pleaded, once more scrambling to dodge what should have been a significant blow. “What is going on?”

“Mr. Negative is one with all things.” The response came in Dr. Connors’s voice, grating and distorted.

“Mr.- Who?” Peter’s eyebrows knit together beneath the mask in confusion. Once more, the lizard reared up before surging forward, easily grabbing Peter with his large, talon-like hands before flinging him into the side of a car. He sank to the ground, slumping over with his back to one of the doors, and struggled to catch his breath. Slowly, the large reptile stalked forward, raising a hand above his head, claws fully extended. Peter clenched his eyes shut, mentally preparing for the intensity of the blow, but it didn’t come.

Daring to look up in the direction of his attacker, he just caught Dr. Connors stumbling backward, hands clutching his face as some of his scales began to disappear, revealing patches of the older man’s flesh. The reptile locked eyes with Peter momentarily, and despite their strange coloring, he could still detect the emotion that pooled within: fear. Spinning on his heel, the creature darted in the direction of the nearest pothole, slipping inside and disappearing in a blur. 

Peter could already see the bruise forming below his eye as he checked himself in the bathroom mirror. Pressing a cautious finger into the skin, he quickly pulled back with a wince before deciding there was nothing he could do to fix it now and stuffing his suit down into his bag. He made his way back out into the restaurant, weaving through the other seated patrons before sliding into a booth next to a window facing the street. 

Reaching down into his bag, he fished around for his laptop, shifting around several foreign objects in his attempts to unearth it. Finally, having retrieved what he was looking for, Peter opened his search engine and began to type. Dr. Curt Connors. His fingers deftly scrolled down the page, eyes scanning the various articles and their headlines until they caught on one written only days before: Dr. Curt Connors Escapes From Ravencroft Prison. Clicking the link, he began to read:

Today, in the early hours of the morning, Ravencroft Prison experienced a jailbreak. Dr. Curt Conners, escorted by an unidentified man, was caught on camera exiting the premises without authorization. Though no one was killed in the incident, several guards were harmed in the altercation. The pair are pictured below, escaping the prison.

Peter squinted in an effort to make out the two forms in the rather blurry photograph. Dr. Connors easily stood out in his lizard form, looming over the other man who he couldn’t recognize. He wracked his brain for the name the reptilian man had called him earlier that day. Mr. Negative. Returning to the search bar, Peter typed in the name. Nothing. He clicked over to the next page of search results. A single Reddit thread, describing an interaction two years beforehand, with a self-proclaimed Mr. Negative. Peter once more clicked in.

the guy was a total fucking weirdo. called himself mr. negative and kept trying to grab me, saying, “you won’t have a choice once you’re under my control”. i would say he was high out of his mind, but he looked weird too. his skin was all black with these white eyes, kinda like a negative of a photo. needless to say, i will not be going back to volunteer at f.e.a.s.t. again any time soon.

Peter couldn’t help but recall the way Dr. Connors’s eyes had looked when reading the description of the strange man, but it was something else that really drew his attention. F.E.A.S.T. That was the name of the soup kitchen Aunt May volunteered at every Saturday. He bookmarked the page before slamming the laptop shut at the sound of his name being called.

“Peter!” His head jerked up, eyes meeting those of a familiar redhead as she pushed her way through the surrounding tables towards him.

“Sorry, it took me so long. I couldn’t get around all the roadblocks. You know, if Spider-man’s gonna make such a big mess, the least he can do is stick around to help clean up,” she huffed, slumping down into the seat across from Peter. He felt his eyebrows raise at the subtle bitterness laced in her words.

“Not a big fan?” he asked, taking in her unwillingness to meet his gaze, instead burying herself in the menu. She only scoffed.

“I just don’t get all the hero-worshipping. He’s just some guy- with complete disregard for the law, by the way.” She closed the menu rather violently and slammed it down on the table before taking a moment to compose herself. 

“No, I’m not a fan,” she admitted finally, conceding to his curiosity. Peter felt his stomach sink at the admission, but he plastered on a smile and moved the conversation along, asking if she’d been to the restaurant before.

“Only once or twice, but usually just for a coffee-to-go. Oh! I almost forgot. I got you something.” Turning to dig through the tote bag beside her, she pulled out a book, far smaller than the copy of The Yellow Pages she’d gifted him only days before.

“For me?” Peter feigned surprise, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Whatever,” Kat only rolled her eyes, pushing the hardcover across the table. The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

“Like the movie?” Peter asked, head cocking to the side.

“No. Like the book the movie was based on,” she replied easily, hand forming a perch for her chin to rest on.

“Why?” he asked, looking down quizzically at the cover.

“If you don’t want it, I can take it back.” Kat reached over to take the book, but he stopped her, snatching the book out of her reach and jerking back.

“I didn’t say I don’t want it. I just asked why,” he said, now holding it tight against his chest, far from her reach.

“Well, you said you like The Outsiders, so I went off of that,” she shrugged.

“But why the gift?” he asked again.

“Since I’m your only friend-”

“You’re not-”

“I am, and you know it,” Kat continued with a pointed look, “I thought it was the least I could do to help keep you occupied while I’m working, since apparently you don’t have a job and have self-selected to bug me at mine,” she finished, sitting back with a smirk.

“I do have a job, by the way,” Peter reassured her.

“Sure,” she replied in a voice that very clearly said ‘I don’t believe you’.

“I’m serious. I do private coding projects. And I sell lucrative photographs on the side,” he explained, failing to mention that those ‘lucrative photographs’ were in fact shots he’d taken of himself as Spider-man, on patrol.

“Lucrative- Oh my God, do you do porn!” Kat squawked, and Peter winced immediately as several heads turned in their direction.

“What? No! No. It’s more like a paparazzi-type thing,” he corrected, stumbling over his words.

“Relax, I figured,” she smiled teasingly.

By the time the pair stood to leave, Peter had almost completely forgotten his altercation with Dr. Connors. That is, until he stood up. Covering his wince with a cough, he bent down slowly to lift the strap of his bag onto his shoulder. As he stood back up, he felt Kat watching him and felt his shoulders relax with gratitude when she chose not to say anything. Peter stepped to the side, allowing her room to squeeze by, then turned to follow her out of the restaurant. However, as they began to head towards the door, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight. 

Peter whipped his head around, searching for the source of his discomfort, his eyes landing on the strange-looking man watching him through the window. Except he wasn’t watching Peter, he was looking directly at Kat, glued to his side, rooting through her bag in search of her phone. Quickly, he stepped around her, moving towards the door and thrusting it open in search of the man. The man he knew immediately from the photo in the article. Mr. Negative. 

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Peter didn’t even seem to notice the cold gust of air as it rushed past him, biting at his cheeks and lungs. He spun to the side, eyes immediately searching out the spot where he had stood only moments ago, looking through the window. Looking at Kat. But he was gone.

Behind him, Peter barely registered the door swinging open once more as Kat appeared at his side, eyes flashing with concern. 

“Peter, what’s wrong?” she demanded, a hand reaching out to tug at his arm.

“Nothing,” he reassured her, but he didn’t meet her eyes as a sinking feeling settled itself in his chest. Kat was in danger, and it was all his fault.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Queen of Underland: Izzy

CW: Panic attack, child of recovering adult whumpee, anger as trauma response, referenced noncon kissing and touching (nonsexual), childhood bullying, referenced past domestic and child abuse, some gendered and ableist insults (kid to kid and nothing too intense - just fair warning)

Izzy, at nine years old, has been free with her family for almost five years now, and her mother has been in prison on a life sentence for two. With attention, affection, and therapy, she has blossomed into a quiet kid who nearly always has her nose in a book.

When two classmates try to put her in the center of a storm, Izzy finds something inside herself that she has pushed down for so long she had nearly forgotten she ever had it.

Izzy finds her father’s anger.

Jax Gallagher belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with permission.

---

Izzy sits at her desk, perfectly still, reading a book while the teacher’s out of the room speaking with another teacher in low voices, just in the hallway. The sun shines in the windows that line the wall, lighting the pages of her book, and one of Izzy’s hands rubs repeatedly over the seam down the side of her uniform skirt, the only movement she makes beyond her eyes.

Around her, the others are whispering, passing notes and giggling (except for Noah, who has his own book open, and Jack, who is drawing his story about giant killer robots in a notebook, and Sarah, Jack’s twin sister who is trying to build a tower of pencils and paper), but Izzy barely notices them.

When the teacher comes back in, Izzy will not be whispering, or giggling, or doing anything that might bother her. When the teacher comes back, Izzy will be quiet, and good, and put her book back into her desk and look up with her hands in her lap. She’s the quietest kid in class, she heard the teacher say so.

At home, she’s not always quiet anymore, but at school she still holds a balance, protecting herself and keeping herself safe in the best and truest way she knows - by simply being exactly what the adults need her to be, and keeping all her real feelings and thoughts inside her head.

Still, while the teacher’s out of the room, she takes a few minutes to read while she has the chance. Her heart beats cold and heavy in her chest as she scans over the words on the page, biting down on her lower lip, worrying at a bit of chapped skin. Her left hand settles over the soft texture of pages nearly yellowed with time spent in the school library being held by hundreds of small hands. The fingers on her right hand feel over the seam of her skirt, right along the outside of her leg, again and again.

Fierce anxiety, and a little fear, swirl inside her for the characters that exist only in ink and her imagination.

Two Earthmen entered, but instead of advancing into the room, they placed themselves one on each side of the door, and bowed deeply. They were followed immediately by the last person whom anyone had expected or wished to see: the Lady of the Green Kirtle, the Queen of Underland. She stood dead still in the doorway, and they could see her eyes moving as she took in the whole situation—the three strangers, the silver chair destroyed, and the Prince free, with his sword in his hand.

“I think I like Karissa,” Henry Fitzgerald, who sits at her left, says to his best friend Kevin Magden - not to be confused with Kevin Michaelson, and didn’t the teacher sigh over that sometimes. He has to speak over and around Izzy’s head. 

“Like, like like her?” Kevin Magden asks, sounding half-horrified, half-fascinated. Izzy fights not to roll her eyes, and tries to focus back on her book, on the entrance of the Queen, on the Prince freed but faced with great danger.

The Queen of the Underland, the lady who held the Prince in the dark for ten whole years, that’s older than Izzy even is. Coming into the room to find the children and the Prince, and her having no control any longer. 

She turned very white; but Jill thought it was the sort of whiteness that comes over some people's faces not when they are frightened but when they are angry. For a moment the Witch fixed her eyes on the Prince, and there was murder in them. Then she seemed to change her mind.

“Run,” Izzy whispers, to the children, to Puddleglum the strange marsh creature, to the freed Prince. “Don’t talk to her, just run. Don’t listen to whatever she says, don’t.”

“What are you even saying, Izzy?” Kevin Magden says.

“She’s all in her book like always,” Henry Fitzgerald says, shrugging. He makes some sort of gesture - Izzy doesn’t look up to see it - and the two of them laugh. She doesn’t care about that. The story is far, far more important than they are anyway. “Anyway, Kev, I like-... yeah, I think I like like her. I’m gonna tell her at break.”

“Gross,” Kevin says, but he sounds fascinated. “What if she says she doesn’t like-like you back?”

Henry shrugs again - Izzy can see the movement from the corner of her eye. “Dunno. Maybe kiss her.”

“Gross,” Kevin repeats, much more emphatically. 

Izzy tries to keep her mind on the page, but shifts uncomfortably in her chair. She closes her eyes briefly, thinking of the Queen of the Underland, standing in the doorway. She imagines her with very white skin and dark, long fingernails, wearing a long dress that brushes the earthen floor, making a soft swish-swish sound as she walks. In her mind, the Queen of the Underland has very bright blue eyes and lots of curly, dark brown hair that is threaded with silver down her back, wild and uncontrolled, like it can reach out and grab you and drag you into the dark with her.

She feels like the Queen is not a stranger to her, and not hard to picture at all. Try as she might, she can’t make the Queen in her imagination look like the description of the Queen in the book. She only ever looks one way - beautiful and wicked, deceptively soft, eyes brilliant and shining too bright when the Prince is in pain.

Will she hurt him, while the children have to stand and watch and can’t save him at all?

"Leave us," she said to the two Earthmen. "And let none disturb us till I call, on pain of death." The gnomes padded away obediently, and the Witch-queen shut and locked the door.

"How now, my lord Prince," she said. "Has your nightly fit not yet come upon you, or is it over so soon? Why stand you here unbound? Who are these aliens? And is it they who have destroyed the chair which was your only safety?"

Izzy can hear the Queen’s voice, musical lilt, simpering sweet and dangerous. Why are you leaving me? How dare you. Come back here, Jax, you can’t leave, you’re mine. 

Kevin and Henry are still talking, but Izzy doesn’t hear them any longer. She’s lost in the panic rising inside of her. Run, she thinks, in a scream, a shout in her mind. It isn’t that she doesn’t understand it’s just a book, but that she is still scared, frightened for the prince whose father had grown older while he was gone, whose family must have missed him so much. She is frightened for the children who do not understand the witch or how to fight her. She’s frightened even for Puddleglum, who only wants to help, to do the right thing. Don’t talk to her, don’t give her the chance, just run. She’ll make you hers again. She swallows - it feels like her heart beats itself right up into her throat, like she is swallowing around it - and keeps reading.

Prince Rilian shivered as she spoke to him. And no wonder: it is not easy to throw off in half an hour an enchantment which has made one a slave for ten years. Then, speaking with a great effort, he said:

“I’ll kiss her even if she doesn’t like me back, anyway.”

Izzy’s breath catches, and she blinks, feeling like she has been pulled out of a spell herself. She looks up, glancing sidelong at Henry, who isn’t looking at her at all, just talking to Kevin. “Hen-... Henry-... what did you say?”

“None of your business,” Henry replies, voice harsh and loud enough to get some of the others to look over at them, and Izzy’s shoulders creep up towards her chin, face burning red. She hates when everyone looks at her, hates it more than anything. Henry looks back at Kevin. “At break, I will. I’ll tell her, and I’ll kiss her, whether she wants to or not.”

Izzy looks back down, but the words on the page run together, she can’t see them any longer, they’re just squiggles, meaningless little lines. What I want just matters more, whispers a nightmare she can never quite feel woken up from. She tries, she really does, to focus again on the book but she sees secondly, she took out a musical instrument- 

Izzy slams the little paperback shut, sticks it back in her desk, and says in a thin voice, “You can’t do that if someone doesn’t want you to, it’s wrong.”

“It’s not a big deal, Izzy, geez.” Kevin on her other side speaks up now, and between them she feels like she’s being battered, tossed on a sea, shoved down, locked in the dark. Izzy stares down at her desk, then, letting her eyes lose focus on the wavy colors in the polished wood. Light brown, almost auburn, and darker brown, almost a chocolate color, very like the hair on Izzy’s own head, clipped short and spiky.

Very very like the wavy, thick curls that ran down her mother’s back, that smothered Izzy in the smell of her shampoo and perfume. 

“It is a big deal,” Izzy whispers. “It’s wrong, to make someone kiss you. It’s wrong. It-... it hurts them. It matters what they want, too.”

“Ugh. It's just a kiss. You’re bonkers, you know that?" Henry leans over, almost in her space, and Izzy sits back as far as she can until she presses her back hard into her chair, enough to hurt. “Absolutely mad.” 

“No, I’m not,” Izzy mumbles, but panic twists even worse inside her. Is she? Her mom is. Isn’t she? Don’t you have to be, to be evil? Dr. Marty says no, that those two things are totally separate and people are just bad at understanding that people can be really, really, really bad and still be sane - that bad people almost always are - and Dr. Marty knows everything about crazy and not-crazy, that’s his whole job, and she’s not like her mother anyway, she’s not. 

“Are so,” Henry taunts, falling easily into the familiar cadence of mockery, and Izzy’s face burns brighter and hotter as the room begins to fall quiet, other conversations falling away as the others realize there might be some entertainment now. Her breath comes faster, and she closes her hands into fists at her side, fighting to control the way the fear and a new rise of anger start to twist around inside her stomach, making it flip, making her feel sick. “You’re bonkers for sure, Izzy Gallagher.”

“I-I’m not. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not! It’s not right to kiss people who you don’t know if they want to or not! It’s not!”

The room feels suddenly too small, and too big - she can’t escape Henry’s bean-breath and she can’t run far enough to get to the door, she can’t run at all. Some small voice inside her demands she stay still, shut her mouth, never talk again. She should have just finished her book, seen how the Prince would escape the Queen of the Underland, seen if the children help him or just weigh him down, one more bit of stone tying him to Underland and maybe he wishes he could just leave them behind, if they bother him, if they’re no good-

“Ewwwww, who would want to kiss Izzy?” A girl near her wrinkles her nose - Lindsey Smith, Izzy’s brain supplies, in an airless dizzy spin of details that aren’t important but she can’t stop circling around. “She looks like a boy.”

“Hey, back off.” Izzy, surprised, glances over her shoulder to find Noah Hawkins looking up from his own book, eyes narrowed. “Izzy’s hair is cool, and it’s cooler than yours anyway, Lindsey-kins. You just wish you looked as good as she does.”

“Shut up! You just say that because you’re a boy, of course you think boy hair looks cool.” Lindsey sticks her tongue out, crossing her arms in front of herself. She has big poofy hair like Izzy’s would be if she didn’t have her dad cut it so short, held back with a clip. Hers is red, though.

“There’s no such thing,” Sarah says from over by the window. “As boy or girl hair, I mean. There’s no such thing. It’s all just hair. Izzy’s hair does look cool. You all should leave it alone, Mrs. Brent is going to be back inside any second and we’ll all get in trouble if there’s fighting.”

“Yeah, Izzy,” Henry hisses at her, leaning in close. Too close. She forgets how to breathe. “Stop causing trouble, Izzy.”

“I’m not,” Izzy whispers. Her face feels like it might light on fire. Her fingernails dig into her palms, until she feels flashes of pain, creating crescents that could take hours to fully fade if she did it hard enough. “I was-... I was just-”

“Just butting in where you don’t belong,” Henry finishes for her. “It’s not your business.”

“It’s-... but, but I just-” Her voice is fading fast, airy and breathless, barely a whisper. Quiet little Izzy Gallagher, who never stands up for herself, who lets everyone talk to her like this, who never says a word she isn’t asked to say. Her fear batters her with wings inside her chest, but beneath it is something else entirely, trying to rise up and take over her mind and mouth. Anger. She and Dr. Marty had talked about it, about how it was a normal feeling to feel, but every swell of it within her was met by the rising tide of fear in response.

She never lets herself be angry. That would make her like her mother, who was angry so much, and she’s not like that, she’s not. 

She doesn’t think, in the moment, that her mother isn’t the only parent who knows how to be angry.

The thoughts are not conscious. They aren’t driven by any kind of logic, they loop and swirl around each other. They flash bright like light in the back of her mind. She thinks about the story, the book inside her desk, the way the Prince fell upon the silver chair, how he swung his sword in dim light. 

She thinks about the prince walking out the hotel doors with a baby in one arm and a little girl on his hip, a backpack heavy against his back, into the sunlight outside. She can remember the way he breathed quick and shallow against her hair, the racing of his heart as he asked her to be very quiet, and very brave. She didn’t know he was scared, he didn’t say it, he was just the Prince, shining in the sunlight, asking for directions to the train station and going in a suit to court later and the silver gave way before the sword’s edge like string, and in a moment a few twisted fragments, shining on the floor, were all that was left of the chair. 

“But-but-but-but, I just-” Henry is still going, and Izzy’s eyes burn as hot as her face, lips pulling back from her teeth in a grimace like a snarl. “Just shut up, Izzy Gallagher, nobody cares what you think.”

“Don’t be a dick, I care,” Noah says, from the back of the room, his voice getting louder, now. Other students whoop and go ooooh, Noah likes Izzy, but Noah ignores them, and he doesn’t turn even a little bit red. “Izzy hasn’t done anything wrong to you.” She barely knows Noah, he’s in her class but they don’t talk or anything. This is the first time he’s done more than help her with a math problem, this is the first time she’s heard him even talk in class without the teacher calling on him.

But it feels good to have somebody else stand up for her. 

“She’s butting in!” Henry protests, hands up like he’s the innocent one. “Kevin and I were just talking-”

“About kissing Karissa Bellweather!” Izzy half-shouts. “From the other class! You were talking about kissing someone even if she doesn’t want to! You said you would even if she said no! That’s not right!”

“Ew,” Someone says, Izzy doesn’t know who. Her blood is rushing in her ears almost too loud to hear. “Do you like-like Karissa Bellweather, Henry?”

“No! I don’t!” Henry looks stricken. He hadn’t expected her to just say it out loud like that to everybody. “Gallagher’s lying! She’s a liar!”

“I’m not! I’m not a fucking liar!” Her voice is too loud and she claps her hands over her mouth. Don’t cry, she thinks to herself, and her own thought-voice twists into her mother’s sharper edges. Her palms ache and she wonders if her nails have broken skin, but the wonder is faint, and faded. She feels a hand pressed against the back of her neck, the Queen of the Underland’s voice beside her ear. Don’t cry, Bella. You’re so ugly when you cry. Jax, get her out of my sight. 

“Fuck off,” Izzy says, voice trembling. She isn’t really talking to Henry, not anymore. “Leave-... leave me alone.”

“Oooh, what’re you gonna do, huh? Gonna throw some punches?” Kevin is too close on the other side, now. They’re both too close. Izzy’s heart beats all out of time, and when she goes to breathe, it… it doesn’t work. Her breath is stuck in her throat, halfway down. The air just… sits there, and she can’t hitch it in or exhale it. It feels like her throat is closing up, she’ll choke on nothing, black out and fall down. “Bonkers Izzy Gallagher, gonna fight us, are you?”

“I-I could-” Her voice is a whimper, and Izzy closes her eyes. 

“Could not,” Henry mocks, from his side of her. “You’re weak as a puppy. What are you gonna do?”

“Stop-... stop you from talking anymore,” Izzy says, and pushes her chair back with a loud scrape, getting to her feet. She should tell Dr. Marty about the book, she thinks, about the Queen of the Underland. She should tell her father about the Prince tied to the chair, and how he chopped the chair to bits, and she should tell them all about it, nice and safe and quiet at home, and not do what she’s afraid she’s going to do instead.

“How, gonna use something you learned from your mam in prison?” Henry asks, and Izzy remembers, all at once, how to breathe - but it’s all poison. She gulps in air, fear sparking up, her nerves feel like a hundred thousand tiny lightning strikes. She wants to run but she’s at school and there isn’t anywhere to go. 

“Wh-what?”

“My dad says your mam’s famous in the States for being in prison,” Henry says, leaping on this new tactic as the blood drains from Izzy’s face. He’s like animals on the nature shows that James likes to watch at home with their snack, circling a calf all alone. She’s a wounded baby calf, she’s weighing the herd down, she’s not strong or brave enough, she never was. “Did she teach you how to prison-fight? Ooooh, did she show you how to make a-” He jabs at the air, fist closed empty around an imaginary knife. “A prison-blade?”

“Shiv,” Kevin supplies helpfully.

“Right, that. Did your mam show you how to shank someone?”

“I don’t-... I don’t talk to my mom,” Izzy says, half-strangled by her own words. Her head is spinning. Her backpack is so far away. “We don’t-... we don’t have contact-... she doesn’t talk to me, isn’t allowed-”

“Oh, ew.” Henry sits back, and his face lights up with the simple cruelty of wounding someone who looks unable to fight back, of regaining his own stability and distracting everyone from his embarrassment by bringing up Izzy’s shame instead. “Are you so awful even your mam doesn’t want to talk to you?”

No. She doesn’t. Izzy’s lip trembles. She can’t bring herself to try and respond. She doesn’t, she doesn’t want to know anything about me at all. The last thing my mom ever said to me was yelling at me not to look so scared all the time and Dad said she never asked about me when he talked to her during the trial she never asked she never-

“Hey, Henry,” Someone says. “This is super gross stuff to say, isn’t it?” Izzy can’t see anything but Henry’s face, everything else is white noise and his words ringing through her, settling too deeply inside, meeting her own thoughts that match them, sometimes, on hard days. She never asked about me, she doesn’t even care that I hate her. Your mam is supposed to care if you hate her. You’re so awful your mom doesn’t even care about you. Your mam is supposed to-

“Yeah, Henry. That’s too far, that’s really mean.”

“She can’t help who her mam is, Hen.”

“Yeah, it’s not like she went to the mam shop and picked a rubbish one.”

“My dad was away for a while, Iz, I get it. My mam says it doesn’t say anything about us. People make bad choices is all.”

“I haven’t even seen my dad since I was five, Izzy, it’s okay, don’t be sad.”

“Yeah, it’s okay, Izzy, don’t be sad, Henry’s just being awful.”

“Hey, she was awful first!”

“Go run up a pole, Henry. I like you, Izzy,” Sarah says, from the window, and moves in her direction. “Henry’s being a jerk, don’t listen to him. Don’t be sad. It’s okay.”

“I like you, too, you’re fun at break, you always have good ideas for games.” That’s Amira, using that certain kind of tone you use when you are trying to comfort an upset person, and Izzy feels some of the ice closing around her heart starting to warm up, to melt, to crack apart. 

Even Lindsey says, almost grudging, “Don’t be sad because of Henry, Izzy. He’s really mean sometimes.”

“I think you’re really cool,” Noah says, in a quieter voice. “Please don’t be sad. Want to play monsters at break?”

They don’t all hate her, they don’t. Someone puts a hand at her back, and she flinches, and they pull the hand away, but they don’t hate her for pulling away, they don’t hate her voice or her hair and they don’t hate her for speaking up, they don’t. 

Henry hasn’t given up, not yet. “Your mam’s in prison for being a shit to your dad, isn’t she?” 

Izzy doesn’t look at him, leaning down to pull the book out of her desk, trying to think. She can pull her backpack out and go the nurse, say she’s feeling sick, and maybe her dad will come get her and take her home. They can call Dr. Marty and she can tell him what happened and Dr. Marty will know what to tell her and her dad to work on for the next time. She can tell him that there were good things, too, like that Noah said he thinks she’s cool, and Amira likes her game ideas, and not everybody hates her because she has the wrong mom, and it’s going to be okay. 

It’s going to be okay.

“Henry, stop it,” She says, in a half-whisper. “Please stop.”

She can go to the nurse. Say she’s sick, it’s not a lie, her stomach is all twisted up in knots. It’ll be true, she’s not going to feel better. She has sweat on her forehead drying cold, making her shiver a little. It’s not a lie, being scared makes her sick, it’s a real sick, it’s not a lie. She gets sick a lot from being scared, Dr. Marty says it’s normal for kids who have anxiety, she has exercises to do, she can picture all her hurting thoughts and move them away, and… 

“That’s what my dad said.” Henry’s voice cuts in. “He said your mam’s a piece of fucking work and probably made your dad one, too-”

“Don’t talk about my dad!” She rounds on him, then, book clutched to her chest. “Don’t you dare, you don’t-... you don’t have any right! You don’t know what happened, you don’t know us, you don’t know anything! My dad is better than yours ever could be! And, and stronger, and braver, too!”

Izzy Gallagher, quiet as a mouse, teacher’s pet from sheer terrified inaction, who always sits still and listens carefully and takes direction so well and is just an absolute pleasure to have in class, Mr. Gallagher, an absolute pleasure, is shouting and doesn’t realize it until the words have left her mouth. 

She should stop, some part of her brain begs her to stop, but the anger is suddenly larger than the fear and she is a little girl with a sword. Where they came from, and what she and her father and her little brother have survived, is a silver chair she will hack to bits until all that’s left shines like jewelry when held up to the light.

Henry’s eyes widen, they are big saucers, and they are very bright and very blue.

“My dad is amazing.” She can’t stop shouting. She’s not even trying to stop any longer. “He lived through really bad stuff and he still got us away from it! Even though it would have been easier to go by himself and leave us, he didn’t, and my mom is evil, and I’m not, because you don’t have to be what your mom is and I’m not ever going to be like that, but you are evil, Henry Fitzgerald, and you don’t even have an excuse! You’re-... you’re mean for no reason, and I hope Karissa spits in your face and kicks you between your legs as hard as she fucking can! You are an asshole, Henry Fitzgerald, and you can go fuck yourself all the way home!”

“Isabella Gallagher!” Mrs. Brent’s voice is shocked, and the words die in Izzy’s throat, as she slowly turns to see the teacher standing in the doorway, staring at her like she’d grown three heads and all of them have fangs. 

Izzy feels like she has fangs, too. And claws, like she is a monster herself. She should be scared, or sad, or ashamed of herself, but all she feels is anger burning bright and hot and good in her veins, louder than fear. Angry feels safer than scared. She feels proud of herself, a feeling so unfamiliar it seems like it must be someone else’s. Sarah, close to her now, whispers, go Izzy, in a soft impressed voice, and Izzy feels her eyes burn again, more than before, but for a different reason. 

They don’t hate her, and Henry isn’t saying bad things about her dad any longer, because of her. They don’t hate her.

“You might be even cooler now,” Amira says, and the teacher shushes all of them and points Izzy out, telling her to go see the Head Teacher. Any other Izzy would slink out with her shoulders hunched, full of fear, but this Izzy feels the buzz of standing up for herself running through her and warming all the cold, chasing the heavy hand on her neck away. This Izzy walks with her chin up and her shoulders back.

Some of the warm feeling goes away when the Head Teacher calls her dad to come get her, and says in her stern hard voice that Izzy was yelling and cursing at another student. The Head Teacher doesn’t say that she had a reason, and makes it sound like Izzy just stood up and started cursing for no reason at all. That’s… that’s not fair. Grown-ups always do that, make it seem like kids just go off for no reason, and Izzy can’t hear what her dad says back to the Head Teacher, but a lot of the warm feeling goes away, then. Her heart feels cold and scared again.

What if he’s mad at her?

What if she can’t be sorry enough to fix it?

Izzy sits in a hard wooden chair that is shaped all wrong for kids and makes her legs hurt after a while, waiting for him to come get her with a racing heart, her book open in her lap. 

There’s some brown-y red smeared on the cover, drying. She made her palms bleed when she was scared and didn’t even notice. She’ll ask her dad to buy the school library a new one. She wants to keep this one for herself.

"I have come," said a deep voice behind them. They turned and saw the Lion himself, so bright and real and strong that everything else began at once to look pale and shadowy compared with him. And in less time than it takes to breathe Jill forgot about the dead King of Narnia and remembered only how she had made Eustace fall over the cliff, and how she had helped to muff nearly all the signs, and about all the snappings and quarrellings. And she wanted to say "I'm sorry" but she could not speak. Then the Lion drew them towards him with his eyes, and bent down and touched their pale faces with his tongue, and said:

"Think of that no more. I will not always be scolding. You have done the work for which I sent you into Narnia."

"Please, Aslan," said Jill, "may we go home now?"

"Yes. I have come to bring you Home," said Aslan.

A flash of gray, worn jeans in her vision brings her slowly into awareness of the world around her, but it’s the voice that breaks her completely from the story’s spell. 

“Talk to me, kiddo.”

Izzy looks up to meet her father’s eyes, surprised - she hadn’t even heard him come up. But they’re quiet movers, the Gallaghers - except for Jamie, who never had to learn to move so quiet she couldn’t hear him, who never had to push down all his sounds so deep inside himself he could go whole days without making any at all. 

Her dad drops into a crouch in front of her, and his knees crack a little, but if it bothers him he doesn’t show it. He looks up at her, from this angle, and he doesn’t look mad.

He almost never looks mad at her.

“I got a call that you were fighting in class.” He looks like he’s trying not to twitch a smile at the corner of his mouth. “And using some pretty creative language.”

“Can’t imagine where I learned to curse,” Izzy says gravely, and there - that was definitely a smile on his face that he has to hide as fast as it shows. She lives for her father’s smile. Still, she closes her book, and folds her hands on top of the stain on the cover so he won’t see it. “I only yelled a little. Henry Fitzgerald was mean to me, and he was going to-... he was going to kiss a girl who didn’t want him to kiss her, even if she didn’t want him to. He said it didn’t matter if she wanted to or not.”

“Ah.” It’s all he says, at first. His face doesn’t show much, now. Her nervous heart starts to beat fast again.

“It’s, that was, um, that was before he got mean. He got mean when I told him that it’s wrong to do that and… I kind of… told everybody in class he was going to.”

Her father’s eyebrows raise, a little. “You did, did you?”

“Yes. Then he said his dad told him my mom’s in prison and that-” She stops herself, closing her hands tightly over the book, before her voice can start to shake again. She takes deep breaths, strong ones, fills her whole lungs up. Her dad waits for her, he always waits for Izzy when she needs him to. “He said, it was just, it was a stupid thing, but it made me really angry.”

Her dad’s face hasn’t changed, but Izzy knows when emotions change in a room, even without anyone’s face moving at all. She can feel that something has shifted inside him, something he’s not showing her. “What did he say?” 

“That I must be awful if my mom doesn’t even want to talk to me.” She says it flat, like it doesn’t bother her at all to hear it. No big deal, it’s normal to have a mother who hates you for stealing your father even though it didn’t happen that way. “Then he said mean stuff about you, and… I was already upset, so… I kind of went off on him. I’m sorry you got called and had to come get me.”

“But you’re not sorry you did it,” He says, and it’s not a question.

She presses her lips tightly together, and shakes her head. “I’m… I’m not. He needed to be yelled at. I’m not sorry, Dad. I mean, I am sorry that you have to do anything, but, I’m not-... sorry for calling him all those names and I will put my money from my birthday in the swear jar if you want, I’ll skip tea for a week and put all my chocolates in there, but I still won’t be sorry for yelling when he was mean about you.”

He huffs a sound like quiet laughter and offers her his hands. “Izzy… I don’t care what a year three kid - or his dad - says about me. But clearly it was important to you. Let me go in there and talk to the Head Teacher about it, and we’ll talk out what happens next on our way home. Okay?”

No anger, or threatening punishments, no mention of discipline ever leaves his slightly smiling lips. Izzy is never taught through making her afraid, not anymore. But he waits, seriously, for her to acknowledge what he’s said. 

“Okay, Dad. We’ll talk about what I need to do. And-... can we call Dr. Marty when we get home? I-... want to talk to Dr. Marty about what happened.”

He looks surprised, but not unhappy about it, and nods. “Yeah, kiddo. Good plan. I’ll be back out in just a bit.” When he turns to walk into the Head Teacher’s office, she thinks that even with everything, he looks very like a grown-up prince, and the rings in his ears look like shredded silver. 

She lifts a hand to touch the shell of her own ear, on her left side. 

Izzy opens her book, to the murmur of their voices as they talk about her. She decides to finish it later, and instead she flips back to read again the bit where the prince takes his sword to the chair that kept him under the spell and tells the evil Queen of Underland that he isn’t hers any longer. 

He will go home, to his family, to be freed of her entirely, even if she still shows up in bad dreams… bad dreams are the only place she can come to, now. He’ll wake up and someone will tell him that she’s gone and she can’t come back, and it will be true. They’ll tell him, again and again, until he believes it. 

Izzy will tell her dad, until he believes it.

Jax will tell her, until she believes it, too.

But first… 

Prince Rilian shivered as she spoke to him. And no wonder: it is not easy to throw off in half an hour an enchantment which has made one a slave for ten years. Then, speaking with a great effort, he said:

"Madam, there will be no more need of that chair. And you, who have told me a hundred times how deeply you pitied me for the sorceries by which I was bound, will doubtless hear with joy that they are now ended for ever. There was, it seems, some small error in your Ladyship's way of treating them. These, my true friends, have delivered me. I am now in my right mind, and there are two things I will say to you…”

“Go fuck yourself,” Izzy whispers with a smile on her face and the thrill of forbidden words up her spine. She isn’t talking to Henry Fitzgerald this time, either. She never really was. “And I’m not sorry you’re not Queen anymore at all.”

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

[thedreadvampy]

Sam and I were inventorying some of his old Mechs merch (posters and CDs and Kickstarter perks) bc he's considering selling some to someone who'll get some use out of it instead of it sitting in a cupboard

and it inspired me to look at my own CDs and I'm just OVERWHELMED WITH NOSTALGIA looking at my signed OUAT CD

it makes me miss hanging out with them a BUNCH, I haven't had a proper conversation with Jonny in maybe years just because we don't tend to be in the same place at the same time, and that sucks because there was a good chunk of time where I think Jonny was the person in the band I spent the most time chatting with and firing ideas around with. Same with Tim and Frank, I love them but I haven't seen them in ages (I had plans to catch up with Frank in like March but alas, coronavirus)

anyway this is a blast from the past and a memory of a time when they really had some time to spare just goofing off while signing CDs, I think a lot of OUAT signed CDs have this level of goofy in-character annotation.

(images under the cut)

"reluctant thanks" rude bitch

[image description: the cover of the Mechanisms album Once Upon A Time (In Space), a red page with a bookcloth texture and the title, band and logo printed in black. Over the top, somebody has written in black marker "To Ruth, with reluctant thanks, The Mechanisms"]

Jonny has annotated throughout in green. I'm not sure who's making notes in red block capitals - from tone I'd guess probably Tim or possibly Ashes. The small red writing is Ivy.

[Image description: half of a double page spread with small portrait photographs of three of the seven band members (Jonny d'Ville, Gunpowder Tim and the Toy Soldier) facing the camera, accompanied by short bios. Each member has signed their character's name next to their photo in black marker.

Next to the photo of Jonny D'Ville, the rank of "first mate" has been crossed out in green ink, and over the top is scrawled in green the word "CAPTAIN," with arrows pointing to his photo. In small red cursive, Ivy has written "citation needed" next to it. Somebody else has written in red block capitals "still first mate, Jonny"]

[Image description: An image of the facing page, with photos and bios of Ashes O'Reilly Drumbot Brian, Ivy Alexandria, and Nastya Rasputina. Drumbot Brian is a young man wearing a top hat with goggles around it. Somebody has added dots to the lenses of the goggles to make them look like googly eyes. Over the photo is written "yum, head" with a line leading to the hat. Below that, there is a photo of Ivy Alexandria. Her role is listed as "archivist", but an arrow is pointing to that word, and somebody has written under it in block red capitals, "stuck-up know-it-all"]

these absolute dorks

(I think the Tetris blocks might be a reference to the video the complete history of the Soviet Union to the tune of Tetris, which Ben at least once demonstrated a party trick of picking up any instrument and playing)

[Image description: The left half of a double-page image, a painting of the characters from the album. A pale-skinned woman with long black hair in profile looks out to the left, superimposed over an image of a man in a long coat, arms spread towards a sky from which bright lights fall in steaks and explode around him. Somebody has drawn over each falling light in black marker, turning them into Tetris blocks. Along the side, Jonny has written in green block capitals "I'm so high!" and under that is written in red block capitals "Jackie in the sky of exploding diamonds"]

[Image description: the other half of the same image. A woman with tanned skin and short choppy bright red hair looks out to the right, superimposed over a loose impression of flames and a wizened old man in an ermine robe sitting in a white throne, bordered at the bottom by three black iron pig masks with glowing red eyes. In thick green marker, Jonny has drawn angry eyebrows onto the old man and put a blob of green pen over his mouth. He has a speech bubble extending from his mouth in green pen, saying "fear me, Ruth!" Underneath, in red capitals, another person has added "and my horrible taste in makeup!" There is another green arrow pointing to the pig masks, next to which is written in green "Angry Bacon". Under that, the red writing has added "also stabby"]

the context needed here is that I have SO MANY DISABILITIES and as my big brother, Morgan KNOWS I have so many disabilities and is also contractually obliged to bully me. hence "she has those?" under "healthy organs"

[Image description: A page of the album booklet, titled "About the music," which lists all the songs on the album, with notes on the songs' origins. Under the track "Rose Red", it says "sung to a tune of the folk song with the same name, probably C17." Jonny has crossed out "C17" and replaced it with "2028 AKC". Under "Laid In Black," the final track, is written "a lament to the 1901 tune of Fifteen Men On A Dead Man's Chest, a pirate sea song written by Robert Louis Stevenson". Jonny has annotated this so that it reads "a hilarious lament". At the bottom of the page there is a note reading "Lyrics and arrangements by The Mechanisms." Jonny has crossed out the words "The Mechanisms" and written underneath in green capitals "me." Alongside, someone has written in red block capitals "fuck off, Jonny"]

[Image description: a credits page from the album booklet. The first line reads "The crew of the Aurora would like to thank the following for their contributions." The word "thank" is crossed out in green ink and replaced with "maim". The next line thanks Curious Magpie Photography for photographs. The following line (referring to me) says "Ruth Wilkinson, for art." Jonny has crossed out "art" and written in, in big green capitals, "all her healthy organs." Under this, Ivy has written in small, smudged red cursive, "she has those?" The next line thanks Granny Flat Studios for music. The following line reads "Dr Camilla, for not killing us (permanently)." Jonny has crossed it "not killing us permanently" with a thick green line, and written in "fucking off!" In small red caps, someone has written next to it "shouting won't help, Jonny. Though it is fun." The page concludes with a list of Kickstarter contributors, and is signed off in print with "The Mechanisms". Jonny has crossed out "The Mechanisms" and written in "JDV"]

[aries-writingblog]

Atlas (1)

Summary: After years of being imprisoned on the Raft, Tony negotiates freedom for his sister Tessa. When she’s free- so is her past, and it will never stop hunting her.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OC(Stark)

Chapter Word count: 1,666

Warnings: PTSD (subtle ish), trauma, torture (in later parts), suicidal behaviors and thoughts, mentions of death, character death, injury, violence, angst, and a lil bit of fluff in there

Disclaimer: Atlas is my own, original work with characters belonging to Marvel (except Tessa and Dr. Clifton). Plagiarism is not cool kids.

A/N: this is my first work Im posting to this platform and I’m really excited and nervous about it. Hope you enjoy- constructive criticism is always helpful as well!!

The Avengers Tower. Former Stark Tower. 93 floors of office space, labs- people carrying out their business. People going about their day. At the top of all of them is Tony Stark. Waiting. Waiting in silence. Typically, he isn’t one to wait on anything or anyone but today... today is different. Today is special. Finally, the silence is broken by a shrill ring of his phone. Tony snaps it up, immediately accepting the call.

“Mr. Stark? Reid Kerrings.” The man’s voice carried through the phone, introducing himself. “Listen, I hear you’re trying to to negotiate a prisoners freedom?”

“She shouldn’t even be a prisoner,” Tony grumbled before plastering on a thick business tone. “Yes, that’s what I’m trying to do here. Thing is, I have a plan that I ran by Fury and Coulson and they seem to think it’s a great idea. Only thing is- that prisoner of yours is apparently ‘dangerous’ and she’d need stipulations on if she were to be released into my care.”

Tony hated this- speaking about her as if she were a terrorist. He hated that she’d been in maximum security prisons for six years. He hated that she was on the raft now. But, if he wanted to play ball, he had to agree to the terms. And unfortunately, that was one of the terms. He’d tried it his way two years ago and it got shut down. Several times.

“Well... you’re a damn maniac- prisoner 067112 is a psycho-“

“Her name is Tessa and that’s my sister you’re talking about so if you’d like to see your job another day I’d keep quiet.” Tony snapped, clenching his jaw. The phone fell silent before Kerrings cleared his throat.

“She would have to meet with an appointed therapist three days a week. She would also have to have a check in twice a week with a parole officer. If there is any flare up of her enhancement that is not accounted for by a member of your team, she comes back here and is no longer allowed parole. She is to be on a tight leash.” Kerrings read through the conditions of the agreement that Tony and Fury had worked out. “She must agree to these terms before her release. If she does, she will be escorted to your property tomorrow at 10:00 AM. Do you agree to these statements made today?”

“Yes.” Tony felt an excited, nervous bubble form in his stomach. He was doing it. His sister was almost free.

“Excellent. The escort team will run a security check on the building and perimeter.”

“Oh, well, not to brag or anything but- it’s the Avengers Tower. I ’m pretty sure this is the best it gets in terms of security.” Tony scoffed, turning when he heard the door opening. Steve Rogers stepped into the room, intending on speaking with Tony about another comm unit. He broke his. Again. He stopped short, hearing the man on the phone.

“This woman shouldn’t even be out of her cell here- she’s dangerous, I don’t care if shes your sister or not. The power of this woman is something that should be contained. not roaming around New York on a Thursday afternoon.”

“She’s a human being. No telling what you freaks have put her through in the raft- that’s probably why she’s going insane. You don’t even allow sunlight in that dingy of a prison. You treat someone like an animal, that’s what they become. Now, if you’ll excuse me, i’m going to run my own safety diagnostics on my own tower.” Tony quickly ended the call and lifted his eyes to meet Steve’s. “Can I help you, o wise elder of the yonder village?”

“Just... a new comm piece.” Steve stepped forward and tossed the broken pieces to the desk before meeting Tony’s eyes again. “What was that all about?”

“That is a surprise for the team I’m arranging.” Tony sat down at his desk, pulling up an image of a new weapon system, one that they’d encountered a few weeks ago on a mission. “These thugs were dealing with now... they’re sophisticated. They’re playing on a new ball field. So... I’m leveling it.”

“You can’t just do that without consulting the team first.” Steve scolded, his arms crossing over his chest. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see- tomorrow morning at ten, have the team all meet in the conference room. I’ll bring my surprise to you.” Tony grinned, feeling strangely optimistic for once. Steve only sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Tony.

“Fine- I’ll call a meeting.” Steve spun on his heel and marched out of the office. Tony sank further into his chair, spinning it to look out of the window.

“Friday, make sure floor ninety two is fireproof.” Tony called out, a twinge of doubt forming in his mind. He was quick to shake the thought from his mind, funneling all his belief into his sister. It had to work. For her sake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting at the oval conference table, Bucky felt an impatience he hadn’t felt in months. Steve had let it slip- more like Bucky could tell there was something and kept prying- that Tony was on the phone with someone, talking about a prisoner. A woman prisoner. Bucky wasn’t sure what to expect and that caused a great deal of anxiety to pit in his chest. He didn’t like being kept in the dark.

Beside him, Steve sighed heavily, leaning his head on his fist, resting on the table. Being roommates with the guy, he knew Steve hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep last night, like most nights. He knew this because he himself was also up, roaming the apartment, watching tv and staring off the balcony.

“Anyone know what this surprise it stark mentioned?” Natasha pressed, becoming quite impatient herself. They’d all been sitting at the table for fifteen minutes. Waiting.

“No clue- I hope it’s better than the last surprise- the one that exploded while in use on the field.” Sam commented, scrolling absentmindedly on his phone.

Finally, the door to the room burst open, revealing Tony Stark marching in with purpose. Behind him, a woman in heavy chains, with metal cylinders encasing her hands, was being escorted in by two men in fire retardant kevlar uniforms. Her head was bowed, dark brown hair shifting to cover her face. Bucky sat up, seeing the woman marched in, heavily restrained. Tony clapped his hands, rubbing them together afterward. He gave the crowd a large smile and nodded once.

“Surprise, Avengers! This is my favorite sister, Tessa Stark, Tess, this is everyone. I’m sure you were given the brochure.” He turned to the two men. “You fulfilled your duties, you can go now.”

The men unclipped the chains and then pressed their thumbprints to the pads on the cylinders. They released with a hiss of steam, Tessa rubbing her wrists once they were free.

“I know you.” Sam’s voice broke into the conversation. Tessa’s jaw clenched and her eyes stared into the floor. She swallowed harshly, keeping her back ramrod straight and her hands in front of her. “Stark... oh, shit- where have I seen you...”

“Anyways folks, she is here to help out on our new group of rogues... she has a, ah... particular set of skills. Mostly explosives and fire. And since that’s what we’re dealing with, I’ve brought in the big guns.” Tony explained, settling in his chair and gesturing for Tessa to take a seat as well. She seemed wary of sitting beside Wanda but did it anyways, sitting barely on the edge of the chair. “Now, we’re gonna need a new plan of attack with-“

“Atlas!” Sam snapped his fingers, pointing at her. Tessa stiffened, caught off guard by the level of his voice. “That’s it! Code Name Atlas, Operation Dry Sands! You served in the army- I’m Sam Wilson, I flew with-“

“Riley...” her voice was raspy and low, rusted with disuse. “I remember you.” Bucky watched as she seemingly tried to melt into the chair, trying to hide herself.

“You were baller, man! She cleared missions like it was nothing!” Sam praised her, excited to finally meet her. “There was talk of her all over camps- everywhere!”

“Atlas?” Natasha asked, a brow raising. “That’s a peculiar code name- sounds... specific.” Tessa didn’t respond, keeping her head low. When the room fell silent, Steve took control.

“Right, well, Tony you mentioned a new plan of attack?” He expertly guided the topic over to a new path. Bucky couldn’t help but let his attention drift back to the new mystery in the room. He allowed his eyes to scan over her, stopping on her forearm where there was black ink. A tattoo of the army symbol, numbers below it. Maybe her squad number? Her arm shifted and Bucky looked up, meeting her eyes. He knew he’d fucked up.

Her dark brown eyes smoldered- a red tint glowing under her irises. Her lips were pulled into a scowl. He quickly lowered his gaze, catching a glance of her veins in her arms. glowing lightly orange. Bucky clenched his jaw and leaned back into his chair, a fierce scowl building on his lips. He didn’t like this woman, She seemed... violent. closed off. Hell- maybe she was just too much like him. And maybe he shouldn’t make a snap assumption but for some reason...

“Alright well, that’s all for now, Tessa- welcome to the team, please make yourself comfortable and if there’s anything we can do to help out- let us know.” Steve nodded as he stood up.

Tessa only nodded, stood up and spun on her heel- leaving the room without a word. Everyone glanced to Tony. He only shrugged and stood up.

“I’m gonna go make her feel at home- just got out of prison and all, see you around.” Tony gave a small wave over his shoulder and walked out, trailing out after his explosive sister.

[sometimesiwriteangst]

I Don’t Want To Die (It’s Three AM)

Summary: Deceit’s struggling, and even if he wants to be helped, he can’t bring himself to do it.

It’s three am and Deceit is tired. He forgot his medication, and he regrets it. Or, he thinks he should. He should regret not taking it, because it makes the pain worse, makes the memories play on loop, makes him stop sleeping.

He doesn’t want to sleep though. His heart races, flashes of faces leaning over him cross his mind when he closes his eyes. His present is empty but his head won’t let him stop.

He wonders how the others would feel about his medication. The post it notes hiding and correcting the flaws in his art, the out of proportion eyes, the wonky hands, the bad perspective.

He glances at his sketchbook, feeling the urge to draw, to paint, create. He could show the twins, show them that he appreciates their work, show that they inspire him.

He reaches over, opens it slowly, glancing at the vibrant pastels, the dull grey marker, the incomplete works he abandoned last month.

The urge is there, but his hand shakes when he lifts the pen, and he changes his mind, throwing it aside and trying to sleep again.

It’s three am and Deceit is fed up of hearing Virgil next door, music still playing from the other resident insomniac. He can’t bring himself to cry when Virgil is so close by, in case he’s heard, in case his ex-friend comes to ask what’s wrong.

He holds his breath, rolls over and buries his head under a pillow, clenching and unclenching his fists, hissing quietly to himself that he needs to sleep, needs to rest, needs to keep going, for Thomas.

He doesn’t linger on what he means, closing his eyes and picturing smooth pixels on multiply, pastel painted dots below line art.

He falls asleep to the thought of what his art could be, and wakes up with the idea now distant in his head.

It’s three am and Remus is there, talking about things Deceit enjoys, whilst Deceit tries to be patient. Whilst he tries to tell himself that he should enjoy being with his friends, that it’s good to have company when he feels so low.

“Did you take your medication?” Remus asks suddenly, and Deceit shrugs.

“I think so,” he lies, knowing there’s six days of tablets he’s forgotten to take, too busy trying and failing to sleep to remember to take them. Too busy trying to live day to day.

“You should check-”

“I mean, I did,” he lies again, charcoal lines smudging, the black grinding harsh, sticking to his hands and bleeding slow, “don’t worry, I know I need to take them.”

Remus looks unconvinced, but Deceit smiles, shows him a warm colour palette, and Remus drops it, onto the next subject, unaware of how desperately Deceit just wants to be alone.

And it’s five am but he can’t sleep, can’t think, can’t make, can’t lie, but he’s tired and wonders what it’s like to destroy a piece of art in progress.

It’s three am and he doesn’t know why he’s looking at a cheery vision, a patchy impressionist painting reminiscent of Roman’s ideas.

“I’m Dr Emile Picani!” the fuzzy vision says with a grin, “I think Thomas is trying to design my character a bit more for the next Cartoon Therapy.”

Deceit blinks slowly. Right. Dr Picani the therapist. How ironic, coming across him in his current state.

“Can you actually help people?” he asks, unsure of how long the idea will be around for.

“I believe so! What do you need?”

“...I need...I need...”

Over saturated watercolours drip down the page.

“I need you to...to help me...stay alive...”

The idea looks confused, and Deceit continues, the empty vision the only thing he can say the words aloud to.

“Because...I don’t want to die.”

He thought when he said it (a truth, a lie, two inks bleeding together) it’d be loud and angry and distraught, tears and confessions and desperation. Deep slashes through layers of still drying oil.

But instead it’s simple, defeated, tired. Less oil built up on canvas, more scratches of biro on graph paper. Less Renaissance, more tired high school student.

The idea frowns, tilting it’s head and adjusting it’s glasses.

“Why would you die?” it asks, and Deceit doesn’t have a response.

He doesn’t want to die. He wants to die. He can’t die. He can fade. He wants to fade. He doesn’t want to fade. Framed prints behind glass behind velvet curtains.

“You should talk to someone more real than me,” the idea says softly, and Deceit shrugs.

“There’s nothing more real than us right now,” he replies, glancing around the empty room, and when he looks back the idea is gone.

Art is brief and fleeting, and his canvas bleeds, silvery watercolour dripping down unsuitable paper, leaving wrinkles in its wake.

It’s three am and his phone is beeping, one of the others asking him why he’s still online, ignoring the perfect irony. He regrets them knowing his tumblr account, regrets them seeing his trauma, seeing his pain laid out in perfect black and white photographs.

He reaches out, opens up the app, glances at Roman’s messages, sees the days of notifications he’s been ignoring.

U ok? Not seen you recently.

He wants to reach out, call for help, tell him he’s lonely and sad and hurting and god he doesn’t want to die, if only because he’s scared and Thomas needs him still.

I’m not doing so well, Roman. I really want to die.

He deletes the message, deciding not to send it. He doesn’t want to be vulnerable, paint so carefully laid out, still wet, still easy to smudge. He doesn’t want them to worry, he doesn’t want to admit to the pain, he doesn’t want to die but he doesn’t want to live.

Sorry, being antisocial lol. I’m fine. U?

He chucks his phone away and buries himself back under blankets, knowing he’s only postponing his final message.

It’s three am and he knows he’s messing up. He knows he needs to take his medication, needs to eat, needs to talk, tell people he’s struggling.

He forgets to talk Thomas out of thinking of his existential crisis, and Thomas is still awake, living proof that Deceit keeps failing even when all he has to do is his one job. Lie, keep lying, keep Thomas alive, healthy, keep him fighting.

Bristles fall out of brushes when you leave them in water long enough, and it damages the canvas, leaves bits of paintbrush in the art.

He looks to his sketchbook, gathering dust, and wonders what the point would be any more. He can’t complete anything, he has no skill. He’s not designed to create, not designed to be passionate, he’s designed to lie.

He can’t get rid of the faces, and he can’t sketch them out, show them simply to the others, can’t word them, the thoughts, the images, like an old worn out film on repeat.

“Sorry, Thomas,” he mumbles, and rolls over, trying to sleep.

It’s three am but Patton is sat with him, asking him why he won’t sleep, asking him why he looks so ill, asking him questions Deceit can’t answer, doesn’t want to answer.

“We’ll help you if you need anything,” the moral side tells him, and his eyes are so hopeful, dusky watercolours lined with ink, soft but sharp, “you know that, right?”

And oh, Deceit knows. He knows they’d help, wants to ask for the help, but he doesn’t, and he can’t explain why. He nods and lies his way out of the interrogation, getting Patton to leave, and tries to ignore the way his heart stings at his self imposed isolation.

His room is empty and devoid of the passion he thinks he could have. But it feels so full, full to the brink of long gone shadows, the past weighing in like a thick fog, clouding his head until he falls to the floor in silent tears, not daring to be loud, not daring to let Patton know how much it hurts.

He’s struggling, a shaky sketch doomed to be scrapped, and still all he knows is that he doesn’t want to die.

He doesn’t know what time it is, but the other sides have sat him down, firing questions at him. What is he doing, how is he doing, what does he need, why is he ignoring them?

“Don’t you want to get better?” Logan asks, as if it’s ever been that simple.

Deceit reaches for an answer, an explanation, hesitating between stubs of oil pastel and harsh messy chalk on black paper. But whatever he does, the piece is too abstract and surreal for an explanation to take form in his voice.

“Deceit, we don’t get why you’re doing this to yourself,” Virgil says, struggling with the words, as if Deceit knows any more than he does.

“We’re here to help,” Roman adds, “we just need to know how.”

The canvas is tearing at the seams. Deceit hates when his canvas’ tear. He can’t hide it, even with all the collage and mixed media in the world, watching it bend out of shape.

“I want to get better,” he says, a truth, drops of ink in calligraphy pens.

“Then tell us how we can help!” Patton pleads.

And Deceit shakes his head, head blurry and unsure of how to explain. He doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t believe they can help push out the voices of the past.

(The sketch is still there underneath the line art.)

He doesn’t know what time it is, but he’s scared, and he doesn’t want to die.

“I could kill you,” the past taunts him, sly and low and echoing through his ears.

He doesn’t want to die any more than he did back then.

He doesn’t know what time it is, but he’s run out of colour, and you can only paint a canvas black for so long before you scrap it altogether.

[anotherdarkiboi]

A Surprise(?) Birthday Party

Happy Early/Late Birthday Host!  I know I’m late, but I just found this lying around and the Host is one of my favs. 

     The Host sits at his desk, surrounded by multiple computer monitors that supplied the only light in the room, dimly illuminating his face. The room is dark and cluttered yet meticulously organized, smelling of old books with the faint metallic scent of blood, due to the overflowing trash bin of crumbled papers and old bandages. The interior decorating is dark, full of crisp monochromatic shades. Color didn't really matter to the Host, knowing that he can't really see it.

    The Host runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it neatly back. He sighs. How long has it been since he ate? A day or so at least. The Host tended to forget to take care of himself when he was in a working mood. He knew Dr. Iplier would scold him for that later. The Host decides to take a break and eat something light, groaning as he pulls himself out of his chair. Standing up on unsteady legs, he tightens the bandage around his eyes as he mentally prepares himself to encounter the other egos, leaving the room.

---------------------

    The Host comes back to his room a short while later. He is surprised that the other egos weren't out and about as they usually were. The chances of not seeing or hearing any of them were slim, especially considering how many of them there actually were. He never really enjoyed having so many noisy people here, so he was happily surprised by their disappearance.

    At least that's what he told himself.

    He would never say it, but he enjoyed the presence of the other egos, even if it was just him listening to them vent. He even considered it more satisfying than just controlling people like fictional characters of his creation- it was harder to get an intelligent conversation that way. Sure, they might not ask much about him, but that didn't really matter. The only person who he considered himself close to was Dr. Iplier, since he was a regular patient, and Darkiplier, since he was used as a valuable informant. He felt appreciated when they would ask for him, even if it was just for a check-up or for some insight. But most of the time, it would just be him, by himself, in his room. The Host liked the quiet, but he didn't like being alone.

    He thinks about using his clairvoyant abilities to find their locations but then decides against it. The other egos don't seem to notice him much anyways, and they probably enjoy their privacy. They might not take kindly to him snooping in on their private life, especially since they aren't close.

    He sinks back down into his chair, letting out a deep exhale. He then notices something on his desk. The Host takes it tentatively, feeling and turning it around in his hands. It is a thick, plastic coated paper, the size of a small poster. The edges were crisp and sharp, smelling strongly of plastic and packaging. He inspects it further, beginning to narrate in a low monotone voice:

    "The camera zooms into the small poster in the Host's hands. In it, there is a Stockphoto picture of a typical looking man, peering through a pair of large black binoculars. Words at the top spell out a message in bright, capital, block letters: 'SEEING IS BELIEVING'. "

    The Host groans, interrupting his narration and sinking lower into his chair. "They do know I'm fucking blind, right?" he mutters. This was probably some practical joke from one of the other egos. He then continues:

    "The poster was dropped off while the Host was not in his room, the deliverer of the poster in question being Dr. Iplier." The Host was surprised. He never thought that the doctor would stoop that low. Clearing his throat, he continues again:

    "Dr. Iplier wanted to check up on the Host as well as give him the poster as a group birthday present from all the egos."  The Host stops. He turns to look at the paper calendar (Markiplier's Tasteful Nudes Calendar) on his wall, lines in red marker crossing off the days. It was February 6th. It was the Host's birthday. It was his birthday, and he completely forgot about it. Heh, that's interesting. He resumes:

    "Dr. Iplier looked around, the camera panning around the Host's dingy room. He was surprised that the Host wasn't there. He thought about how the Host spent too much time here instead of socializing with everyone. In his medical opinion, Dr. Iplier believed that the Host's living style wasn't very healthy.  But then again, the same could be said for him with all his late nights and caffeine addiction. Dr. Iplier placed the poster on the Host's desk for him to find. He noticed the overflowing wastebasket that contained many bloody bandages. He sighed, seeing that they were all used and washed multiple times, the once white fabric now a stained and faded pink. He wondered why the Host didn't just ask him for fresh ones as he walked out the room."

    The Host stops narrating. He feels the fabric he has over his eyes, wiping his fingers across it. It was already soaked through with blood, excess dripping down his cheeks. He made a mental note to see Dr. Iplier for a new bandage later.

    The Host switches gears and continues describing the poster itself. "There is a message written on the back," he says, flipping the poster over. "The handwriting is in a distinctive scrawl of Dr. Iplier in blue pen ink. It reads: 'Dear Host, I hope the poster wasn't too insensitive. Wilford was the one who got it, so you know how that is. Anyways, we just wanted to say that though you can't physically see, your unique insight is important to us, so thank you. Hope you have a happy birthday! From your friends,'  -the message stops there. Below it, there are various names and short messages to the Host, most of them wishing him a happy birthday, the colorful words filling the entire space on the bottom."

    The Host smiles. He rips off a piece of masking tape from the dispenser on his desk. He stands up with the poster in hand in front of the empty wall space near his desk. He turns the poster over to the Stockphoto binocular-man and the "SEEING IS BELIEVING" side, about to tape it to the wall. He pauses. The Host then flips it back over to the side with the birthday messages, taping that onto the wall. He smooths the paper down before stepping back away to make sure of its placement. "Perfect," he whispers. Using his abilities, he begins to locate the egos (especially Dr. Iplier) to thank them. He begins to narrate…

----------------------

    All of the egos were (both figuratively and literally) piled up in various hiding places in Dr. Iplier's office and hospital room. Dr. Iplier sat behind his desk with his head in his hands.

    "Why does everyone have to hide here?"  he grumbled, complaining about the damage and the increasingly large number of people crowded around him. There were loud shouts as well as the occasional screams and crashes, as he expected. He figured that it was better for the mess to be contained in a single space instead of having the whole house look like a disaster zone. Yet why, out of all the rooms, did it have to be his?

    "I would guess that it's because this surprise party was your idea in the first place," replied a low echoey voice. Dr. Iplier turned to glance up at the figure standing beside him. It was Dark with an amused smirk on his face at the doctor's predicament. Dr. Iplier sighed, seeing the truth in Dark's words, looking out onto the sea of toddlers before him.

    Ed Edgar crouched behind a patient bed with Bim Trimmer, making a business deal (Ed wanted to advertise his baby selling business on Bim's show. Bim said yes, of course.). An infinite number of Jims fell out of the top cabinets and closets, scurrying around to find a story worthy of Jim News. The Silver Shepard hid behind a bundle of colorful birthday balloons in an attempt to blend in but failing due to the fact that there were only two balloons there. Bingiplier stood in the middle of the room with his eyes covered by his hands, naïvely believing (upon Googlplier's insistence) that if you can't see the person, then the person can't see you. The King of the Squirrels stood snickering behind the closed door of the office, not realizing that once the door opened he would be hit in the face. Amid all the chaos, no one bothered to warn him.

    Dr. Iplier groaned, slumping over his desk. The Host was probably coming soon. He sighed, slowly standing up while straightening the lapels of his lab coat. He attempted to get everyone's attention, but no one was listening. Dr. Iplier turned to Dark as a silent plea for help. Dark smirked mischievously and cleared his throat, standing up straighter with his hands held loosely behind his back.

    "SILENCE," he barked, his voice booming. Dark's red and blue aura flickered menacingly behind him. All was silent. "Everyone has to hide quietly until the Host comes because if I find you, you be punished by me… personally," he growled. No one moved. "NOW," Dark bellowed, the egos silently scrambling around to hide. Dark smiled, savoring the intimidation and fear they felt.

    Even Dr. Iplier jumped a little at Dark's outbursts, shivering from the intensity of his commands. It didn't help that he stood right next to Dark- the volume itself made it hard for him not to cower in fear. But Dark would never actually punish another one of the egos, right? He didn't feel like asking.

    All of the egos were able to hide in record time, the room becoming silent once again. "Thanks for that," Dr. Iplier whispered to Dark.

    "Anytime," Dark replied, still unable to wipe the content smirk off his face.

    "Aren't you going to hide?" the doctor asked, seeing that Dark was the only besides himself that wasn't hidden from view.

    "Yes, as soon as- wait," Dark said, pausing to look around the room mid-sentence, "where the fuck is Wilford?"

    As if on cue, everyone's favorite li'l shit,  Wilford Warfstache strolled into the room with a tower of boxes precariously held in his hands, kicking the door open with his foot. The door promptly slammed into the King of the Squirrels's face.

    "Where do I put all the presents?" Wilford declared excitedly, a large smile beaming on his face, completely unaware of the King of the Squirrels's presence. Dark gave Wilford a death glare, moving in to help get the presents and to scold Wilford for coming so late. Wilford then saw the King of the Squirrels squished behind the door. He moved out of the way.

    "Oh, sorry about that, my good sir," Wilford exclaimed, chuckling at his own oblivious attitude. The King of the Squirrels walked past him, rubbing his peanut butter covered face and muttering about how he was the king of the squirrels. Dr. Iplier advanced toward him to try to access his injuries. The king waved him away grumpily and walked off.  "But you're dying!" Dr. Iplier called after him as a futile attempt to bring him back.  

    Dark and Wilford finished arranging the presents on an empty patient bed, the packages of various sizes and colors covering the entire surface. Dr. Iplier marveled at the sight of all of the presents. It was nice for everyone to contribute something for the Host, even though he doubted the Host would actually use all of them. But it was the thought that counts, right?

    "Where's the cake?" Wilford asked. Dark smirked, snapping his fingers to reveal a large birthday cake covering Dr. Iplier's desk. It was much larger than most store-bought birthday cakes, the size having to be enough for all the egos to share. The words "Happy Birthday Host" was written in neat cursive and the candles were already lit.

     "Show off," Wilford muttered just loud enough for Dark to hear.

    "Where did you get the cake?" Dr. Iplier interrupted, wondering about its atypical size.

    "I made it," Dark said nonchalantly, then teleporting away. Dr. Iplier decided not to press for questions, plopping back down into his seat. He peered down to see Wilford crouched underneath his desk, giving him a small wave.

    The doctor sighed. Now to wait.

---------------------

    The Host finishes his narration. He pulls himself out of the chair, patting his pants down and straightening the lapels of his trenchcoat. "When will they ever realize that they can't surprise me?" he ponders aloud in a quiet voice. He leaves his room, mentally preparing himself for his "surprise".

    He walks the familiar route to Dr. Iplier's office, not needing to use his abilities to see because he already memorized where to go. The Host stops in front of the door, his hand on the cold metal doorknob.

    "Huh, 'friends,' " he wonders aloud in a whisper. He smiles, opening the door.

[peacock-and-squad]

A Family bond is strong.

A short for my friend @ask-these-weird-kiddos XD with her two characters Patricia and Avery, and my characters! The two main focus though are Patrick and Leduc ^^ So enjoy! Also this isn’t Canon to @ask-these-weird-kiddos AU

———

“HEY! LET US OUT!” A 13 year old boy shouted as he was struggling wildly in a strong set of arms. As for Patricia the 14 year old had been restrained and was in a cage holding Blot who was limp in her arms. The ink parasite seemed alright but wasn’t waking up from the coma they were in. “LET G-!?” Avery was cut off as he was tossed into a cage and locked inside, the cages were solid except for the door which was thick bullet proof glass, they had holes in them allowing air in.

Patricia was in shock, this was from the black lash she had gotten from whatever they hit Blot with. The poor girl was just paralyzed as she hugged Blot to her, Avery grew worried as he asked “P-Patricia?! Are you ok?! What happened? You were doing alright in the fight.” Yes before they got captured they were in the middle of a raid, They were supposed to be the back up for Patrick and his gang as they are in the front doing the most damage to a Medici smuggling area. Unfortunately Patricia, Avery and Blot got ambushed by a small squad, and one thug struck Patricia’s parasite Blot. With some sort of device that put Blot into a coma state.

And this in turn made Patricia rush to aid her fallen friend but the back lash of pain struck her sending her down in a paralyzed state! She was picked up along with Blot, and the rest were subduing a very raging Avery, who was cuffed by his wrists and ankles and both where now in cages. Being transported to a unknown location, and this didn’t sit well as Avery was peeking to Patricia through the few holes in the cage. Patricia was slowly coming back from the lash, she held Blot close nuzzling his head.

“Avery they did something horrible to Blot! He’s not moving at all! I feel he’s alive but just not responding!” Patricia spoke and Avery replied “Hey, it’s gonna be ok, I’m sure Patrick noticed we aren’t there by now! And they’ll be coming for us!” He said encouragingly to her. This made Patricia smile a bit and nodded “R-Right! They won’t let these creeps get away with kidnapping us!” She cheered but both yell in surprise as the truck turns sharply right and they were thrown into around a bit.

“Ugh! Damn their damn bad drivers!” Avery cursed out, as they straightened out. Patricia hissed annoyed as well as she cradled Blot in her arms, She looked down to the small apron she wore. The girl remembers that she had been cooking with Ileum when the raid was called! She hadn’t remembered to take it off! So carefully she tucked Blot into the large pocket it had. She frowned as Blot still didn’t even twitch from the movement.

Suddenly the truck stopped.

This caught both the kids attention, as they stare at their clear doors as the back was opened. Nether said anything as the cages where unloaded onto a dolly. If looks could kill Avery’s glare could have turned these guy’s inside out and ripped in half! He was not happy in the slightest as Rage was spiking through him, no one did this to Patricia! NOT A DAMN PERSON! He wished so badly he wasn’t chain up and in a cage.

Patricia made a huff sound not even bothering to pay any attention to the men. She didn’t have to give them any reaction as she stuck to petting Blot gently on the head. Although she did watch as they were rolled into a interrogation room, how they knew this? The blood on the floor and a few teeth here and there. If not those signs, then the torment devices on the walls definitely show their intentions. Avery and Patricia both swallow nervously at this, they got left in the room and all they could do was wait for help..

——At the front of the building——

Two guards stood, keeping an eye on the door to the building behind them. “So why two kids? What do they have to do with the attacks on the smuggling houses?” One person asked the other. The other replied “Apparently those two are in cahoots with the ones doing the raids, And I heard the two leg breakers from the circus are coming!” The other blinked and said “For two kids?! Really? Damn won’t be much left of them..” Suddenly both readied their Tommy guns as a teen walked up to them. “Hey! Move it kid! This is private property!”

Patrick didn’t even flinch at the guns and merely yawned. “Ohhh I’m so sorry~” he said voice just oozing sarcasm as he was grinning a Cheshire grin. “Didn’t mean to intrude on your blabbering! I just wondered if you’d give my Brother and Sister back! Or....Well you don’t wanna meet her.” He said scratching his chin. The two thugs look to each other....then back at Patrick and one spoke “Who’s ‘her’? Well it actually doesn’t matter, you aren’t getting them back! In fact you can join them!” Patrick sighed annoyed as he said “Ohhhhh that was definitely not a good call..” before the two could move a blurred figure jumps onto one of the goons back.

Patrick was all to happy to lunge at the free goon. And start running them apart with a burning rage that worsened when his little Sister and little Brother were just snatched away from him while his fucking back was turned. He had one person ripped from him, “I AIN’T HAVEN YOU FUCKS TAKE ANYONE ELSE FROM ME!!!” Patrick snarled in absolute rage as he ripped the guy’s spine out through his back. He glared down at the dead body and he looks over to his partner Leduc. Who had cleanly sliced her victim leaving them headless armless and legless. The temporary saw blades made of electricity dissipate, and she looked to Patrick who threw the spine away and he stormed to the door, Leduc not even hesitating to follow the only thing on her mind was thrashing anyone crazy enough to get in their way from retrieving Patrick’s and her’s family.

Patrick’s trusted crew was to deal with any new comers poking their nose’s where they don’t belong. That and keep the car ready to move it once they get Patricia and Leduc.

——Back in the Interrogations room——

Patricia and Avery we’re still waiting for something to happen, now bored in their cages until yelling a gun fire are heard. This made the. Immediately perk up in surprise and they both grinned knowing it had to be their rescuers! They was chatting on the other side of the door before it was kicked in by Leduc. “Knock knock!” Patrick said smirking as he strolled in and then went to start working on the locks. Leduc was watching the hall in case they had any unwanted visitors. It was obvious they had miniature battle, Patrick had a few cuts and bruises along with one broken Argus eye and his ponytail had been lost and his hair was messy. Leduc had a black eyes and damage to her apron and she also had bruises on her as well but can’t be seen.

Once free the two kids hugged their Adopted family. “Man are we happy to see you! After you got carried off by those creeps I ran back to get Leduc for back up!” Patrick said as he then hear a ruckus “That’s our cue to leave!” Leduc said as they all bolted out and everyone piled into the car and bolted off. Soon they where at the Labs getting checked out and it turns out Blot had been damaged from the strike he received and it collapsed on of the few bones in his body. He was helped and he was perked up and resting on Patricia’s lab tail wagging. All five were resting in the TV room from doctor’s orders. Leduc was combing Patricia’s hair and Patrick had Avery leaning on him watching TV. “Thanks a lot for the rescue!” Patricia spoke up and Leduc smiled “But of course! Your part of this family now! Mess with one of us you messed with the rest. So of course we came immediately to help!” Patrick nodded “Heck Yeah! Ain’t no Medici goon taking anymore of my family from me!” He states grinning. Avery and Patricia both smiled lightly happinesses blooming in their chests as they were called family. Blot purred nuzzling Patricia and seemed to be confirming this, and then Dr. Avian came and she was holding a Tray and set it on the side table. “Here you need to be hungry after that escapade! Ileum and Big Band made dinner and they didn’t want you to miss it!” “Thanks Miss Avian!” The two children said at the same time both seeming to radiate a happy energy.

———-

The end! So I do hope you all like it!

Patricia and Avery belong to @ask-these-weird-kiddos

The other characters belong to me!

[casismybumblebee]

I Want to Break Free Chapter 2

Trigger warning for brief mention of sexual assault and drugging.

Chapter 1; Character Page ; About the World

The aches and pain were what he noticed first upon regaining consciousness. Before he even opened his eyes, Dean knew he must look rough. A movement to his left made him aware he was not alone. Tensing up automatically, Dean waited. “Mr. Novak,” a carefully polite voice was saying, “you don’t need to wait here, you are not family.”

A lighter voice answered, all snark, “Dr. Milton, this man was just assaulted and his family isn’t here yet so I’m staying right here, thank you very much. And have Meg bring in some more lollipops, would you?”

Grinding teeth, probably from the doctor, accompanied the retreat of steps and the gentle click as the door swung shut. Dean’s eyes flew open and he squinted against the too-bright lights of the hospital room. His nose hurt like a bitch and the itching under his skin and slick-feeling in his charming hospital gown told him he was still in heat. There was one of those stupid finger things that tracked your pulse on him, but he was otherwise unviolated by hospital equipment. An Alpha sat close to him, though very clearly giving him space, and stared at him with eyes like sun shining through a tumbler of sweet tea. Dean was surprised again by his short stature, which didn’t seem to match the strange... bigness of the man. Like he managed to fill out any room he was in. At the moment, Dean couldn’t find it very impressive.

“You’re awake!” the Alpha half-shouted, acting like he wanted to hug him, which made Dean flinch. The man stilled and raised his palms in a placating manner, just as he’d done in the alley, “sorry, sorry. My name is Gabriel, if you remember.”

Dean nodded, ignoring the throbbing pain in his face as he opened his mouth to speak, “Dean.” His voice was mangled and nasally, not at all the smooth voice he usually was so proud of. His broken nose meant he could really only smell blood, but he thought he could get a whiff of cherry as he regarded Gabriel.

“I know,” Gabriel answered, nodding absent-mindedly and not mentioned the stuffy sound of the Omegas voice, “they already identified you, apparently one of the nurses - Garth was his name - knows you. He called your brother a few minutes ago.”

Sam. Oh god, what was Sam going to think? His Alpha brother was his best friend, but he was still an Alpha, and still prone to anger. Would he blame Dean for this? Dean couldn’t think of a reason why he wouldn’t. He should. A tear rolled down his cheek as he looked down at his hands.

It didn’t take long for Sam to arrive, he must have floored it over here. Dean’s incredibly tall brother burst into the room like the man who assaulted Dean was still there, all Alpha rage and clenched fists. The way he exploded through the door would have been comical in another situation. Angry eyes immediately found Gabriel and a feral snarl ripped through his teeth. Gabriel stood and backed up, all submissive and carely, “whoa there, I’m not him!”

His words didn’t do anything and the tree of a man before him advanced, teeth bared. Gabriel tilted his head and showed his neck, stopping Sam in his tracks. Alphas didn’t just bare their necks to Alphas or anyone for that matter. It surprised Sam enough to let Dean break through the Alpha rage.

“Sammy,” Dean spoke, wrecked voice making his brother flinch, “it really wasn’t him. He, uh, he saved me.” Instantly deflated Sam Winchester backed down, the angry turpentine scent draining out of his ink and leather scent. Though Dean couldn’t quite smell it, the relief in Gabriel’s face confirmed as much. Dean watched Gabriel frown and sniff in Sam’s direction but ignored it, instead baring his neck to his brother and mumbling, “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“No Dean,” Sam said, the wobbling in his words betraying him a moment before the tears did, “I’m sorry. I should have been there!”

Dean only shook his head, tears falling again. Sam seemed to pick up on the fact that he wasn’t helped and instead sat in the chair Gabriel had abandoned, wiping the tears and taking a large breath. Without looking at the other Alpha Sam addressed him, “thanks man. For, uh, for protecting him. And then... getting him here.”

There was a question in his words and Gabriel shrugged, “it’s Gabriel Novak. My brother is an Omega and I... it’s easy to ignore the heat scent if you think of your kid brother, you know?”

Sam nodded, surprised to hear another male Omega mentioned. Omegas were the least common secondary gender and out of every 5000 of them born only about five were male Omegas. He was suddenly incredibly grateful for this short Alpha, without him Dean would be a broken mess in an alley. Or worse. Sam shuddered involuntarily and glanced at the door, “the doctor better hurry up. I want to get you back to my house so you can actually sleep.”

Fat chance, Dean thought. It would be a miracle if he ever managed to sleep again. The news of another male Omega didn’t even interest him. Nor did the doctor. He just wanted to leave. Bobby and Charlie hadn’t shown up yet, so obviously Sam was keeping them at bay. Tomorrow he’d have to see them. To explain. Their reactions somehow freaked him out more than Sam’s, Charlie was emotional and Bobby would no doubt feel guilty.

The doctor entering pulled him from his thoughts. He was young and good looking, with dark hair and green eyes. If Dean hadn’t been so distracted he may have thought he was attractive. Through the blood scent in his nose, he picked up saline and cotton, overly clean scents that made the doctor less attractive at once. With him was Sheriff Jody Mills, looking all business and obviously trying to seem unassuming. Dean groaned and it made his brother and Gabriel growl, both moving in front of him defensively. Dr. Milton and Sheriff Mills each stopped warily. When both of his Alphas relaxed, apparently not deeming either person a threat, the doctor stepped forward and cleared his throat, “Mr. Winchester,” Dr. Milton began, consulting the chart in his hands, “all your tests came back okay, except for the Fervothyl and Rohypnol in your system. Your medically triggered heat isn’t nearly as intense as your normal one, if you’ve noticed your lack of sexual drive.”

Dean nodded, unsurprised by the drugs found in his blood. Fervothyl was the heat drug popular among Omega traffickers because it triggered an unnatural heat and made the Omegas weaker, more likely to just bend over for them. He’d never before been drugged with it and the heat it triggered felt medical and wrong.

Dr. Milton watched his reaction carefully before continuing, “Sheriff Mills is here to get your statement and then, if you’d like, you can be discharged.”

The Omega nodded and Dr. Milton took his leave, prompting Sheriff Mills forward. “Dean,” she began, “we just need to know what you can remember.”

The Beta’s voice was all sympathy as she spoke and the maternal note in it almost made Dean cry again. He knew her distantly, but the respect and warmth he felt for her made it seem like she was family. That thought made his stomach turn, he didn’t want to talk about this with someone he was that close to, “can we, uh, do this alone?” He asked, cutting a glance at Sam nervously.

Gabriel stood immediately, followed by a much more hesitant Sam. As they made to exit Sheriff Mills addressed them, “don’t leave the hospital yet Mr. Novak, we’ll need your statement too.” Gabriel nodded and left the room, sitting down on a bench across from the door with Sam beside him. The sheriff looked at Dean again and sat in the chair beside his bed, which seemed to be where people felt least threatening to him.

“Okay, Sheriff Mills,” he began quietly, nodding when she softly reminded him to call her by her first name. “Jody. I left Singer & Sons at a little after 7, when we closed. I was walking to the Roadhouse and cut through the alley between the bookstore and Cajun Cafe, I didn’t even notice the man until he grabbed me.”

Jody was busy scribbling notes in her little notepad but interrupted softly, “can you tell me about him?”

“He was taller than me, like 6’4” of 5”,” Dean began shakily, “with a scent like really sour dirt and blood, or maybe it was rust. He was dark haired with dark eyes, and an Alpha, that’s all I know. He held me down and threatened me, but Gabriel attacked him before he could... um, penetrate me.”

With a frown and nod she closed her notepad, “Alastair,” she sighed. “He’s an Omega trafficker, you were fortunate Mr. Novak was there. We’ve been chasing him for years, but it’s been almost 3 years since he was last reported to be here.”

Dean shuddered, “are you going to be able to catch him?”

Jody stood and handed the Omega a card before heading to the door, “honestly? I don’t know. But we’ll be doing everything we can, I promise you that. Get better soon, Dean, and call me if you ever need me.”

She left with that super not helpful statement and before the door swung closed a nurse squeezed through. His sense of smell was getting slightly stronger and he grimaced at the cough syrup and mint smell that accompanied a small Beta nurse.

“I’m Meg,” she held the chart from Dr. Milton but didn’t bother looking at it, “I’m here for your discharge, Mr. Winchester.” Meg didn’t seem to eager for small talk as she handed him a clear vacuumed sealed bag with what looked like beige scrubs in it, along with a small bag containing his wallet and keys. “The police kept your clothes, so we have these for you.”

Dean took the bags and pulled the blankets off of him, ignoring the bruises blooming over his skin and the ache that seemed bone-deep in his body. “Thanks, Meg,” he managed, hoping she’d get the hint and leave.

“After you’re dressed, you’re good to go,” she responded dully, “your bother handled the paperwork. Feel better, Mr. Winchester.” And then she was gone.

The ugly scrubs were at least soft and thick, hopefully they’d be able to contain all the slick coming out of him until he could get home. Already his temperature was returning to normal, it seemed as though he hadn’t been given enough drugs to trigger a full-blown heat. Without another look at the hospital bed, he opened the door and met a pacing Sam.

His brother held out his jacket for him, “I begged Jody for it back, and since you’d only been carrying it she obliged.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean sighed, tucking it under his arm. “Let’s go.”

They walked out side by side, Sam glaring at every person who passed and Dean keeping his head down. He was so tired and he hadn’t even let himself really fall apart yet.

They both missed Gabriel, who still sat on the bench outside Dean’s room, head in his hands and tears rolling down his cheeks.

[jam2289]

I Went to a Writing Group - February 12th, 2020

I like to think differently, and I'm pretty good at it. In reality, when people are truly thinking there is rarely agreement. Sometimes there can be in a general sense, but almost never in detail. Thinking is a dialogue that you have with yourself, which is why it can be paralyzing. It's an ability that everyone has, but it's rarely used, especially for important things, because it's uncomfortable. It immensely complicates your world to question what you know, it's the very definition of anxiety, and most people avoid anxiety as much as they can. Alas, I love it, and have spent quite a lot of my life just thinking.

I almost did too much thinking in this writing session. If you question how you're perceiving the world, or how you're acting in the world, you stop while you're thinking about it. This is a state of high psychological entropy, and anything can come out of it. As you decrease your options your anxiety decreases. You settle on an interpretation of the world and then you know how to act. It feels good to be set on things, and that's the only state in which you can take action.

When we received the prompt, "Just as you fall asleep, the phone rings." I thought about starting like most people would, with the phone call. The most natural place to do this would be in a bed near night time. You could easily change it to falling back asleep in the morning, still in bed. I wanted to come up with something unique. What if it was a different time, a different place, a different situation, a different phone call?

The writing time had started. I was running through different scenarios in my head. Minutes passed as I sat still and stared at nothing in particular. Images running through my mind, evaporating and shifting into entirely different apparitions. A constant inner narrator critiquing everything, suggesting changes, wanting something different, open to all possibilities. An idea generated, an idea rejected. A reason why the idea might work, a reason denied. In short, I was thinking.

You can see the danger of thinking. Even if you're one of the people that can overcome your inherent fear of anxiety and confront the uncertainty of true thinking, you can just as easily step into the trap of eternally thinking without taking action. So, I set pen to paper and let a story organically grow from my brain, down my arm, into my hand, through my pen, into the ink, and onto the page.

- - - - - - -

Stan swallowed. His throat was a little dry, and he restlessly shifted, his wrists straining against the straps pinning him to the metal bedframe.

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Even his eyes were sore; from the bright florescent lights shining down at him.

Stan opened his eyes and looked around the room again, craning his neck, hoping to see something that he had missed. Hoping to see something useful, hoping to find a reason to have hope.

Nothing.

The mechanism inside of the thick metal door clinked, and the door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.

"You managed to shift the bed a little Mr. Doff," said Dr. Reach as he glanced up from the notes on his clipboard, "but we have a solution for that."

"Often," he continued, "we resist that which will make us better. So, if we cannot bring ourselves to surrender, we could use a little external help."

Stan looked at the so-called doctor with weary yet still defiant eyes. The look a person gets when they have the will to fight, but not the energy. "You're not a doctor," Stan said quietly and steadily, "you're a sadist pretending at playing a savior."

"Don't worry Mr. Doff," said Dr. Reach as he rolled up Stan's sleeve, "the electric shock treatment is proven to cure projections just like yours."

Dr. Reach inserted the needle into Stan's arm and pushed the yellow tinted liquid from the syringe into him.

Stan's eyes slowly slid shut as a phone rang from the next room, the hollow sound echoing down the empty corridor.

- - - - - - -

That story really worked. A few people had to release the breath that they were subconsciously holding while I was reading. And several people really wanted to know what happens next. I told them that we no longer have a point of view character, so we can't know, lol.

I wondered when I was writing the last bit of dialogue if I was using too many interstitial sentences. By that I mean sentences where I have the dialogue attribution revealing whose speaking in the middle of the sentence, potentially with some other descriptive stuff. But, they seem like a perfect fit here.

Even though this was a slow and clunky writing session for me, it came out well, and I'm happy with it.

________________________________________________

To read more from Jeff go to JeffThinks.com or JeffreyAlexanderMartin.com

[tootdump]

Character Design Lesson

Assignments I’ve found online:

From Cedric’s Blog-O-Rama

Lesson 1: Fat Joe

You are to design a concept sketch of Fat Joe based on the play, The Long Voyage Home. Take it as far as you like. Description: SCENE—The bar of a low dive on the London water front—a squalid, dingy room dimly lighted by kerosene lamps placed in brackets on the walls At the far end of the bar stands Fat Joe, the proprietor, a gross bulk of a man with an enormous stomach. His face is red and bloated, his little piggish eyes being almost concealed by rolls of fat. The thick fingers of his big hands are loaded with cheap rings and a gold watch chain of cable-like proportions stretches across his checked waistcoat.

Lesson 2: Silhouettes

Our assignment was to take Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, and fill a page with little thumbnail silhouettes. We were told to play with shapes, trying to find a simple and clear design for the character. The good thing about doing fast little thumbnails is it forces you to think in broad, general terms and not get hung up on the details. When you are just concerned with the overall shape, your thought process can flow and brainstorm. The goal isn’t to do terrific sketches, its to get a lot of ideas onto the paper so that later you can develop the best ones. It’s a great exercise and I highly recommend it. In the future I hope to make it part of my process when designing characters for clients projects.

Lesson 3: Portrait Study

We were given photos of four different men. First, we had to do a straight-forward sketch of the person, not really pushing the shapes or getting too cartoony. Just do a standard portrait. Then, after finishing the portrait sketch, immediately put it away and get rid of the photo. From memory, draw the person again using three different shapes: a circle, a square, and a triangle.

The goal was not to do a dead-on likeness and squeeze it into the shape, because that would be almost impossible. Rather, we were to take the features that defined that person (i.e. eyes wide apart, big chin, small pointy nose, whatever) and play with those features within the shapes to create three new characters.

Lesson 4: Jekyll and Hyde

Last week we were told to choose one of two stories (Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, or Oliver Twist), and start thinking about designs for the main characters. Our first step was to fill up at least one page with thumbnail silhouettes of possible designs, thinking about what we could say about the character with just the overall shape. Stephen then critiqued our thumbnails and told us which ones were the strongest. As the course progresses, we will continue to develop our character(s).

Lesson 5: Hand-y Drawing Exercise

Part 1 was to sketch a page of hands.

Next to the face, the hands are the most expressive part of the body, and therefore one of the most important features in any drawing. Its easy to get lazy with the hands, because they can be so stinkin’ hard to draw. I think there are two reasons so many artists struggle:

1. Hands are incredibly complex. I think there’s something like 27 bones in the hand and 15 joints, not to mention all the little muscles, tendons, etc.

2. Hands are always moving, and they can move a zillion different ways. There is no “standard” hand pose.

Stephen spent a significant portion of his video lecture analyzing the hand and pointing out how to break it down into manageable parts to make it easier to draw. Then he told us to go draw a page of hands, using either our own hands or photos for reference.

Lesson 6: Jekyll and Hyde Clean-Up

Our assignment was to choose one design from our “Jeckyll and Hyde” work and ink it up. Inking is not my strong point, especially digital inking on the Cintiq. The Cintiq is superbly fabulous and awesome….except when it comes to inking. I just can’t seem to get the same line quality that I could on paper, which makes my lines look even more mediocre than they normally would be. Maybe I just need to practice it more.

As part of the class, Stephen gives each student one-on-one feedback on their assignments via internet video. Here’s some pointers he’s given me on my assignments, which I tried to incorporate into this final design:

• Watch out for “parallels” (lines and/or shapes in the design that run parallel to each other).

• Push your shapes more. Use more extreme angles, greater size contrasts, broader curves, etc.

• Work on thinking through the understructure of the drawing (especially in your legs and hands). Don’t just use blobby shapes, make sure there is a real skeleton with real muscles underneath.

• Keep your sizes/proportions consistent (i.e. both hands the same size, both arms the same length, etc.)

• Let your design “breathe”. Pull your arms and legs out and away from the body for clearer poses. Spread out your facial features more (I tend to bunch them up a bit).

Lesson 7: Turnarounds

This week’s assignment was to do rough turnarounds of our character.

In animation, once a character design is approved the next step is to create “turnaround” drawings. The purpose is to make sure the storybaord artists, animators, and/or computer modellers can re-create the character accurately. Turnarounds are a tedious but essential part of any character designer’s job. For major characters, there are generally four to five drawings that need to be done: Front View, 3/4 Front View, Side View, 3/4 Back View, and/or Back View. For minor characters, usually only a Front 3/4 View and a Back 3/4 View are needed.

Turnarounds can be quite challenging. It’s relatively easy to do just one drawing of a character. But drawing the same character from other angles can complicate things. The most common difficulty for the artist is making sure that the character looks appealing and consistent from all angles. Easier said than done.

Turnarounds will also reveal any flaws or weakneses in the design. You may sketch a character that looks great from the side view, but draw him again from the front view and he may suddenly flatten out and get boring.

A good designer must also think about functionality. In animation a character can have crazy proportions, but he/she must still be able to act expressively and perform common tasks. For example, did you know Charlie Brown can only touch his nose if you look at him from the front? If you look at him from the side, his arms are too short to reach around his big head.

The best way to do turnarounds is to start with a 3/4 view and then spin him around in your mind to get the other views.

Lesson 8: Attitudes and Expressions

This week’s lesson was all about model sheets, specifically attitudes and expressions.

A “model sheet” is a page of drawings that animators and storyboard artists will use as a guide when animating a character. A good model sheet will give a sense of both the personality of the character (i.e. how does he react to certain situations?) and the physicality of the character (i.e. how does he walk, move, etc.).

Our assignment was to create a model sheet for our character, consisting of two parts:

1. Six standard expressions (anger, surprise, sadness, happiness, fear, and disgust);

2. Two full-body attitude drawings, which could be whatever we wanted. The only rule was that they give a sense of the character’s personality and/or response to a given situation. I chose to depict Dr. Jeckyll before and after drinking the potion that transforms him into a big, ugly, hulking monster.

Lesson 9: The Importance of Sketchbooks

We had to go to a busy public place and fill a page with observational sketches. The Mall of America is near my house, so I went there to sketch the above page.

I can’t over-emphasize the importance of keeping a daily sketchbook. The only way to get better at drawing is to draw. As Stephen likes to say, “A page a day keeps the competition away”.

A sketchbook isn’t for polished drawings. Rather, it’s a private place where you can stay loose, experiment, stretch yourself, and make mistakes. Lots of them! (Mistakes are the best teachers). If you want to keep growing as an artist, the worst thing you can do is fill your sketchbook with things you already know how to draw.

Going to a busy place to draw real live people is something you should do regularly. (Stephen fills a page every day over his lunch hour). Most people don’t sit still for very long, so it forces you to stay loose, think fast and make bold decisions, which over time will increase your confidence. Don’t sweat the details; focus on the essence of a pose (which can usually be captured in just a few lines). Try to capture the overall physical attitude of the person, which is the foundation that breathes life into a drawing. You can always go back and flesh out the details later.

In his lecture, Stephen talked about what a character designer should focus on as he sketches the people around him (i.e. balance, gesture, line of action, negative space, rhythm, attitude, etc.) He also talked about not just seeing, but studying what you draw. Observe the different ways people walk, talk, and gesture. Notice body types, hairstyles, and clothing choices. Study how fabric clings and hangs around the body, how people position their legs when they sit, how they lean when they carry things, how their posture changes with their attitude (i.e. excited, bored, annoyed, etc.) These are the things that give your drawings personality and character.

Stephen also talked about “frankensteining”, that is, assembling parts of several people into one character. You might start to draw a man reading the paper, but as soon as you rough in his body pose he gets up to leave. Don’t abandon your drawing. Add the profile from another person, maybe the hair from a third person, etc. Frankensteining keeps you from getting frustrted when your models keep moving (or leaving) in mid-drawing, and you might be pleasantly surprised at the new character you’ve created.

The point is that you keep drawing, keep experimenting, keep learning.

Lesson 10: Memory Sketching

“Memory sketching” is an exercise designed to strengthen your observation muscles. It works like this:

Go to a place where there are a lot of people (i.e. a mall, airport, coffee shop, etc.). Choose someone in the crowd to draw. Before you pick up your pencil, spend a few moments studying everything about them (their clothing, their posture, their face, the way they do their hair, their height….everything). Don’t look at them for longer than one or two minutes. If they haven’t walked away by then, turn and face the other direction.

Now, close your eyes and continue to study them in your mind. Analyze as much as you can remember. What was that hairstyle again? How far apart were the eyes? What color were the shoes? What was with that funny walk? (Don’t peek. It will completely destroy the purpose of the exercise.)

Finally, when you’ve got your target burned into your brain and you’ve thought everything through, THEN pick up your pencil to draw. And again, no peeking.

Lesson 11: Fat Joe

Our very first assignment was to design a character based on Fat Joe from the play The Long Voyage Home. We were given this description:

SCENE—The bar of a low dive on the London water front—a squalid, dingy room dimly lighted by kerosene lamps placed in brackets on the walls At the far end of the bar stands Fat Joe, the proprietor, a gross bulk of a man with an enormous stomach. His face is red and bloated, his little piggish eyes being almost concealed by rolls of fat. The thick fingers of his big hands are loaded with cheap rings and a gold watch chain of cable-like proportions stretches across his checked waistcoat.

Now, nine weeks later, we were asked to return to that assignment and do it again, this time with clean-up and color. Since this was our last class, it was a chance to apply everything we’d learned.

[saintedfury]

tagged by @thirdstreetsam

BASICS.

FULL NAME : Soledad Amaranta Guerrero ALIAS : Boss, Jefaza, Furia, Sol AGE : 38 (as of this moment in Bossville) BIRTHDAY : August 8th ETHNIC GROUP : Latinx NATIONALITY : American LANGUAGE / S : English and Spanish, a bit of Russian SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Pansexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Polygamous RELATIONSHIP STATUS : Currently in an open relationship with Eli Mitchell. Recently lost a long time lover, Troy Bradshaw, and even more recently mutually ended a relationship with Johnny CLASS : Working Class (No matter the size of her ‘bank account’ Furia is who she has always been. A Latina from Mission Beach and worked her ass off every day of her life--legitimately and not. HOME TOWN / AREA : Stilwater born and raised CURRENT HOME : Currently she only has a residence on Zin, her Bossville residence deteriorated and has not been restored. Though Eli has offered for her to come to the New Earth settlement in his dimension. PROFESSION : Racer, boost, gang leader, galactic emperor, formerly POTUS

PHYSICAL.

HAIR : Jet Black, wavy and usually worn down. It’s currently regrown out to about her shoulders. EYES : Hazel, rimmed in green, with long lashes and a strong swooping brow NOSE : straight and defined, not quite buttonish, but rather unremarkable FACE : Triangular to Square, she has prominent cheekbones, a squarish jaw with a strong chin. LIPS : Average, but on the fuller side. Always painted in a blood red, which is really smudge-resistent. Though she’s not adverse to occasionally intentionally wearing a less kiss-proof version of the shade. COMPLEXION : Using this reference, her tone ranges from tawny to terra cotta, leaning toward the brown-red. BLEMISHES : She has the occasional dark freckle on her arms and back, but not many. SCARS : There are several across her knuckles. On her torso there are thin scars, both smooth and jagged, from gunshots and knife wounds. She’s got one that nearly traces her collar bone, but is really only noticeable when she has a tan--it goes silvery and almost seems to take on a ghastly glow. Most of them have faded by now. TATTOOS : A large ornate Fleur de lis on her right shoulderblade, a TS on her left hand, a chaos symbol at the top of her spine at her hairline, a fiery lion on her hip. A lovely ornate peacock has joined the mix, along with a wolf  on her lower back. There is a small four leaf clover in black and white on her right ankle and a clever spider crawling across the inside of her right wrist.  HEIGHT : 5′9″ WEIGHT : 132 lbs BUILD : Trim, defined but not toned. She has a dancer’s body. FEATURES : Long legs, ruby red lips, and a thick curtain of wavy ink black hair ALLERGIES : Bullshit USUAL HAIR STYLE : Long and loose, showing off her natural waves, which get curlier the shorter her hair is. USUAL FACE LOOK : Usually she has a welcoming look. Thankfully, she doesn’t suffer from resting bitch face, but that sultry pout gets her in trouble from time to time. USUAL CLOTHING : Furia is usually dressed quite posh. She even makes sloopy jeans and a t-shirt look dressy. She keeps her appearance up to a certain rather refined scale complete with stylish heels and boots, though of late she’s been veering back into baggy jeans, clunky work boots in purple, baggy hoodies, and bandanas (mainly for when she goes ‘writing’).

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR / S : Open water, boats, losing people she cares about, being the cause of the loss of those she cares about (either death or estrangement) ASPIRATION / S : Stealing every moment of happiness she can from the darkness of the world, as well as guiding the empire to autonomy. She’s rather hoping to steal a large chunk of time in the next four years to bask in the time Eli has left. POSITIVE TRAITS : Loyal, protective, playful NEGATIVE TRAITS : Can be incredibly self-destructive MBTI : ENFJ ZODIAC : Leo TEMPERAMENT : Sanguine SOUL TYPE / S : The Warrior, with a side of the Nurturer (x) ANIMALS : Lions, big cats, house cats VICE HABIT / S : Fighting (she’ll go to fight clubs, start brawls), alcohol, sex FAITH : None GHOSTS? : Yes, she’s felt haunted her entire life AFTERLIFE? : No. (Though she wants to hope that there is one, if only for the people she’s lost, and because of Eli’s threat to come back and see her after he’s gone.) REINCARNATION? : No. (She sees Talon as a special case. It’s not something available to normal people.) ALIENS? : Of course! POLITICAL ALIGNMENT : Rather a mix of egalitarian and socialist ideals ECONOMIC PREFERENCE : She is struggling to keep the empire in barter system, there are forces seeking to monetize the economy. SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION : She believes in the idea that equality is the trait that will allow the people of her empire the freedom to pursue liberty and happiness. EDUCATION LEVEL : Finished high school. Nearly completed her associate’s in accounting.

FAMILY.

FATHER : Martín Guerrero MOTHER : Angela Guerrero SIBLINGS : Memo, Maximo, Enrique & Emilio, Socorro, Gabriel EXTENDED FAMILY : Several aunts and uncles NAME MEANING / S : Soledad means solitude. After losing her parents and grandparents, she feared that her name might signify her fate. That thought still haunts her from time to time, especially lately with Troy’s death and her estrangement with Johnny. Amaranta means unfading, and Guerrero means warrior. HISTORICAL CONNECTION? : Only in Stilwater, her grandfather (Yayo) Alejandro ran a black market smuggling ring out of the Stilwater docks. He was careful and successful enough to remain unknown to officials in the city.

FAVOURITES.

BOOK : Persuasion by Jane Austen, maybe tied with Fantomina by Eliza Haywood MOVIE : Probably the Fast and the Furious movies--cars, races, chases, explosions, and fights. Hard to beat, or so she tells me. 5 SONGS :  Alpha Female by Wild Beasts, Raise Hell by Dorothy, A Little Wicked by Valerie Broussard, Hips Don’t Lie by Shakira, Bad Influence by P!nk DEITY : God, though the two had a falling out years ago, she chooses not to believe in him HOLIDAY : New Year’s & Mardi Gras MONTH : March, because it’s usually quite rainy SEASON : Winter PLACE : Anywhere, as long as she’s there with someone she loves WEATHER : Rainy or sunny SOUND : The powerful rumble of well-built engine SCENT / S :  Spices, smoke TASTE / S : Caramel, spices, chiles, smoked meats and veggies,  . FEEL / S : Lace, silk, denim, skin. ANIMAL / S : Lions, specifically lionesses NUMBER : 8 COLOUR : Black, white, purple, lavender.

EXTRA.

TALENTS : Cooking and baking, drawing and ‘writing’, dancing, picking locks, driving, boosting cars BAD AT : Pistol accuracy, dealing with her own failures (particularly when she feels she’s failed the people closest to her), placing herself before the people she loves,  TURN ONS : Confidence, fun loving nature, adventurousness, loyalty TURN OFFS : Lack of a sense of humor, taking oneself too seriously, lying/dishonesty HOBBIES : Dancing, graffiti, drawing, cooking (though not as much now that she doesn’t have a place in Bossville). TROPES : Lovable Rogue, Tomboy & Girly Girl (Though she fits both roles in her timeline), Sugar & Ice Personality (though few have witnessed her icy side) AESTHETIC TAGS : #Araña, #Seda y Encaje, #Dulce y Picante, #Veloz GPOY QUOTES :  “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people just exist.” -Oscar Wilde | “One day, you will wake up and there won’t be any more time to do the things you’ve always wanted. Do it now.” -Paulo Coelho | “Never waste a moment, it may be the last with someone you love.”

FC INFO.

MAIN FC / S : Natalie Danish & herself ALT FC / S : I don’t know her name but the woman who is in the avatar square when posts from this blog show in the dashboard. OLDER FC / S : Haven’t really given it much thought. To be honest, I’m not sure she’ll make it to fifty or much past.  YOUNGER FC / S : Again, I’ve posted a pic or two here and there, but of nameless folks. VOICE CLAIM / S : Rebecca Sanabria (the Latina VO actress from SR 2) Though Furia’s got a thicker accent than most, she never wanted or tried to lose it. Honestly, when I hear her voice in my head I hear deeper Latina voices like Sofia Vergara, Salma Hayek, and Maria Conchita Alonzo. GENDERBENT FC / S : Jason Momoa (who is also the FC for her brother Memo, they look very much alike).

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 : if you could write your character your way in their own movie , what would it be called , what style would it be filmed in , and what would it be about ?

A1 : It would be some over dramatic mix of action and romance probably. There would probably be a lot of cars and skimpy lingerie. It’d likely have some corny name like Silk & Steel, or something foolish.

Q2 : what would their soundtrack / score sound like ?

A2 : It would be a mix of things you can dance to.

Q3 : why did you start writing this character ?

A3 : I actually created Furia for a smut one shot. She was supposed to be a one trick pony and this happened.

Q4 : what first attracted you to this character ?

A4: She’s just this mix of serious and playful. It’s really her imperfections and faults that I enjoy the most.

Q5 : describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5 : Oh, she can be quiet moody and self-destructive.

Q6 : what do you have in common with your muse ?

A6 : A love of music and caramel. And we’re both good cooks.

Q7 : how does your muse feel about you ?

A7 : She thinks I really need to get out more 

Q8 : what characters does your muse have interesting interactions with ?

A8 : All of them! Really! Whether it’s something playful or character building. The interactions with everyone are always fun, and even the most innocent, calm, superficial interactions and draw out some of her history and pieces of her personality. Honestly, her interactions with other muses and characters has allowed me to develop Furia much more fully over the last several years.

Q9 : what gives you inspiration to write your muse ?

A9 : Music, movies, prompts, RP, talking to other muns, reading, driving. And for some reason when I fall asleep, she tends to pop into my head some nights. It kills me because I always end up sitting up 5 or 6 times to jot down some idea that came to me as I was falling asleep.

Q10 : how long did this take you to complete ?

A10 : A few hours give or take.

Tagging @nightmareon3rdst, @thirdstreetshackles, @demonsaint, and anyone else who would like to participate as well. I just think most of the folks who I’d usually tag were either already tagged, tagged me, or completed it beforehand.